#this hurts him more than it hurts you senna

[babylon6comic]

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[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[katiascraft]

"If nothing else gets you through. Then darling, i'll cry with you" | LN4

parings: Lando Norris x reader.

Summary: after the chaotic Brazilian GP, you know Lando is verygood at lying that he is alright and nothing can move him. But with you he can't pretend.

Now playing: "Cry with you" by Jeremy Zucker.

Word count: +1,2k.

Warnings: I think none. A few cursed words I guess and mentions of anxiety. Not a native English speaker so there could be (so many) errors. Not proofread.

Author's note: so today was the shittiest day at the office y’all! I still feel like shit but I needed to write something about this. Why is Lando so hated??? You need to check yourselves!! Don’t forget to like or reblog! And follow me so we can be friends :3 (and drink mate together!)

MASTERLIST

The Brazil GP it’s been the toughest so far. The Championship of drivers was also kind of defined. Of course Max was gonna win. He wasn't a three time world champion by luck. He is really one of the best drivers this sport has ever seen in history along with Senna, Prost, Lewis and Schumacher. But all of that indicated that your boyfriend was not gonna win the championship this year and that shuttered your heart.

You knew how hard Lando worked on that. All of the media attacked him. Social media twisting his words in a really cruel way. It was all too much noise and you perfectly knew how hard it was for him. How much anxiety he was handling and all of the pressure he was putting on himself. The pressure and illusion of the team to be back at the top after so many years decided it was gonna be Lando the one who did that. And that was a correct choice, lando was more than capable of winning the championship. But at some point it all happened so fast the pressure was descomunal.

You knew your boyfriend. You know how hard he’s worked all year. How much this all meant to him. You didn’t have holidays this year because he really wanted to fight. Train. And attack. Or at least that’s what he wanted to do.

You knew he was really good at pretending and playing it cool so people won’t ever know how much hurt his carrying. He could play the super hero indestructible for all the camaras. You won’t see him shattered right then and there. But you knew him too damn well to know he was broken. He hoped to be the winner. He dreamed about it his whole life. And this magical year was finally the one who gave him the chance to almost be it. This race was the hardest. It was luck and skills to the limit. A lot of crashes. The rain was irritating at one point. You almost didn't want to keep watching. When Lando got off track and went down to P6, you knew. He didn’t reply to any message through the radio. You cried, of course you did. You were on this as much as he was in it. You cried out of frustration. This year was a rollercoaster for you. You also dreamed of the day Lando won. You wanted that to happen even more than he wanted to. He deserved it. For how hard he works. How hard he is on himself when something out of his hands happens. Or when he made a mistake. How hard was all of that on his mental health. How obsessed he could get. And how that could send him into a spiral. You knew this was the best year at the same time it was the worst one.

When you watched him walk into the garage where you were. Your heart broke. Not because he was angry or even sad. He was playing it cool like it was not a big deal at all. So you knew how much pain he was handling.

Your eyes met after he talked to his engineers and mechanics. You were so sad this weekend. So good yet forgettable.

“Hey” he said walking to you and you just couldn’t help but dropped a few tears hugging him so tightly. You were squeezing him at some point. He let you do it. And rested his head on your neck. He fought the tears in his eyes so hard in that moment.

“I’m so proud of you. You are so strong Lando. So talented” you said now looking at him trying to repair something with your thoughts on him but knowing it won’t change anything. But you just wanted him to know he was all of that and the greatest person alive you knew. He kissed you gently.

“I love you y/n. Thank you for always supporting me” he said and gave you a kiss on the cheek giving you another hug. You didn’t say anything but hugged him tightly. After a few seconds another person joined and by the giggles he left out, you both knew it was Oscar. You two giggled a little. It was a family hug.

After that intimate little moment, the media had to be done so you had to say goodbye for a while.

(…)

After dinner with the papaya family you decided it was night in. Lando showered again because he said he had a headache. You haven’t talked about how he feels yet. You didn’t want to be invasive and more because this was a very sensitive topic to discuss. You knew he would eventually crack and talk to you. Like he always did.

You put on your pajamas and waited for him by just looking out the window at the city of São Paulo. After a few minutes la do was out. You turned to look at him. He was by his luggage wearing only a towel looking for a boxer and T-shirt. You could see his whole back. He took off the towel and put the clothes on. You looked to the bed and climbed in it waiting for him. You analyzed him one more time while he got cozy on the bed with you.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m okay babe” he said, like reading your mind. You gave him a half smile.

“You sure? We can talk about it baby” you said softly and got closer to him so you could stroke his hair sweetly. He looked at you and nodded. But then his eyes were full of tears so he denied. Your heart sinks. “Come here my love” you said, bringing me to your chest and hugging him in a way for him to find comfort somehow. He hugged you and hid his face in your neck so you couldn’t see him. “It’s okay baby. I know it was q fucking shitty day at the office. I know how much you wanted it. And you deserve it still, baby. But life is sometimes a bitch you know? I mean the alpines got the podium” you said trying to make him feel better. He was still crying and all you could read was he tigherter his grip. “Sometimes life is a bitch to the people that don't deserve it. Amazing people who are good and so no harm but somehow get the harder life mode now and then. This makes you stronger, Lando. I know next years gonna be. You will do it. Because you can and because you want to. And that more than enough because talent you already have babe” he moved a little under your hug. You heard him giggle a little. That makes you smile a little too.

You stoked his curls gently and kissed his forehead.

“I love you and admire you so fucking much. You deserve the world and I know you will eventually get it” you told him now looking into his eyes holding his face between your hands. His face was wet and his eyes teary. Seeing him like this broke your heart in so Many pieces. But you knew he was gonna be okay. He was gonna be world champion one day.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I love you” he said with a shaky voice and you gave him a little kiss.

“You just did you landinho” you said sweetly making him smile and you gave him another million kisses.

——————————————————————————————-

Hope you liked it 💌 if you have any ideas my inbox is open so send your requests!

[themultifanshipper]

Oscar was giddy with excitement. Lando was going commando under his ugly senna inspired race suit, and he kept reajusting himself to hide the fact he was half-hard at the prospect of what was waiting for him when the day was over.

Inspired by this whole mess

Warnings: pain kink, lil bit of subspace if you squint? They're unhinged abt each other guys idk what more to say

Oscar was also hard, but he had the advantage of the waistband of his boxers to tuck himself into.

This was the deal: if Lando didn't wear underwear for media day, he would get a reward that night for being a good boy.

This was the problem: Lando was getting quite chafed because of the rough material and he was already struggling, half way through the day. So Oscar took him to his drivers room and got on his knees, lotion at the ready, and sucked him off for his troubles.

Once back out there, in front of everyone, it took Lando less than 20 minutes to get hard again. He got off on the pain and thrill of it all. The anticipation killing him, knowing his reward was worth it.

Oscar kept looking at him heatedly from wherever he was talking to sponsors, and whenever they brushed against each other it would send a chill up their spines, both of them incredibly riled up by the end of the day.

And it didn't help that Lando was technically wearing Australia's national colours.

The last hour was the worst. Lando was quietly whimpering to himself everytime he moved, and even Oscar's reassuring hand rubbing his back wasn't enough to soothe him.

Unfortunately for both of them the pain turned Lando on, and seing him in pain turned Oscar on.

They were a bit sick like that.

"Colour?" Oscar would ask.

"Green" Lando whined, every single time.

By the time they could finally leave, Lando was leaning heavily on Oscar, and he almost had to carry him to the car that would take them to Lando's.

Once inside, Oscar wasted no time stripping Lando of his suit, the cold air on the raw skin making the older man hiss and moan in relief.

Oscar carried Lando to the bed, grabbing some lube and aloe cream on the way, and set him down on the bed. He lifted Lando's legs to expose him, cheeks red and burning.

He gently rubbed the cream into Lando's flesh and the sting made the man writhe in pain, but also impossibly harder.

"Please Oscar, just fuck me, I need it"

Oscar grinned at him, he was so hard he was leaking onto Lando's thigh.

"Okay baby, I've got you now, just give me a minute to open you up"

He started out with one finger, making Lando whine, then two, while his other hand kept rubbing cream over the crease of his thighs.

Lando was so hard it hurt and he was slowly going mad as Oscar opened him up.

When he was finally ready, crying slightly from being denied so long, Oscar lined himself up and pushed in slowly, inch by inch until he was fully inside. Lando was completely out of it, whining and babbling nonsense as Oscar slowly rocked in and out of him, tears were staining Lando's cheeks which just served to drive Oscar a little bit mad. Neither of them were going to last long. So Oscar put his cream covered hand around Lando's cock, and the other around his neck, the flash of pain making Lando come instanly with a wanton moan, Oscar finishing inside him seconds later.

"Are you okay Lando?"

Lando was incapable of speech so he grabbed Oscar's hand and squeezed twice.

Oscar quickly cleaned them up, reapplied cream everywhere, Lando's cock making a valiant effort to get hard again, and settled him under the covers.

As he slid into bed and scrolled his phone for a bit. A hand came up and settled on his arm, a small "I love you, Osc" coming from the lump in the bed next to him. He squeezed the hand and replied "I love you too Lan"

[its-avalon-08]

Amoreeee!

i love ur works and i have a very specific reuqest in mind. this is too detailed so please feel free to ditch a few details because im aware its too much. this is a mv1 x senna!daughter one.

max is hard racing some driver and he gets angry and flustered and he crashes because he act irresponsibly. y/n's heart stops because the way the car rotated and hit the barrier refletced her late father's passing.

her breath stops, max is ok but gp IS ANGRY at him because that could have been easily avoided. max is not hurt at all.

he is still angry when he comes back into the motor home. and then y/n gives him a cold shoulder and doesnt speak to him.

this makes max angrier leading to a passive aggressive arguement. max says something which leads y/n to say "fine then, fuck off and die see if i care" max is shcoked and so is everyonbe else in the motorhome

when she rushes out in tears she bumps into carlos/charles/lando and he comforts her and she says "i never shouldve said that"

they make up, hapoy ending make it extra emotional.

LOVE UR WORKS!

i have to confess, i love this one the most out of everything i've ever written. its extra extra long, and the anon messaged me and asked me to add a few more things, so i have done the same! anon ily ! (edit - i messed up the translation! its been fixed now!!) enjoy reading <3

coração valente (mv1) (brave heart)

find the headcannon here!

The roar of the engine was a dull thrum in Y/N's ears as she watched the battle unfold on the screen. Max was locked in a fierce fight for position with Esteban Ocon. Every aggressive lunge, every desperate attempt to overtake sent a tremor of unease through her. It was too reminiscent, too close to the edge.

Then, disaster struck. Ocon made a late move, and Max, fueled by frustration and a competitive fire, reacted impulsively. He swerved to block him, the car losing traction as it took the corner too tightly. The world slowed down as Y/N watched in horror. The Red Bull spun, a sickening ballet of red and blue against the asphalt, before slamming into the barrier with a sickening crunch.

Her breath hitched, a choked sob escaping her lips. The way the car crumpled, the dust cloud mirroring the crash that stole her father… the memory flooded back, vivid and terrifying. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo threatening to burst through her chest.

Thankfully, the medical team rushed to the scene, and the relief was almost a physical blow. Max emerged from the wreckage, shaken but unharmed. But the reprimand from Horner was swift and brutal. "Unnecessary risk, Verstappen! You could have avoided that entirely!"

By the time Max stormed back into the motorhome, his anger was a palpable presence. He tossed his helmet onto the couch, the thud echoing in the tense silence. Y/N sat by the window, her back to him, a cold, hard wall where warmth and concern usually resided.

"Great job out there," Max spat, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Another brilliant strategy by Horner, putting all the pressure on me."

Y/N remained silent. Her silence was a punishment, far worse than any raised voice. Max, already on edge, bristled.

"You gonna say something, genius?" he snapped. "Or are you just gonna sit there like a statue?" Y/N turned a deaf ear to that.

The air in the motorhome felt thick enough to chew on. Y/N sat at the table, meticulously organizing spare race parts, a pointed silence radiating from her. Max hovered by the coffee machine, his usual swagger dampened by a heavy frown.

Christian Horner, ever the mediator, attempted to lighten the mood. "So, Max," he boomed, "what are we learning from this little spin?"

Max, bristling at the reminder, mumbled a vague response about tire strategy. Y/N, without looking up, chimed in, "Perhaps a lesson in spatial awareness wouldn't go amiss."

The air crackled. Max whipped his head towards her, his jaw clenched. "Oh, and who's the expert on spatial awareness, Miss Never-Been-On-The-Track?"

Y/N slammed a wrench down a little too hard, the metallic clang echoing in the tense silence. "There's a difference between calculated risk and reckless driving," she retorted, her voice laced with ice.

Max scoffed. "Spoken like someone who's never felt the pressure of a championship on their shoulders."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Pressure doesn't excuse stupidity, Max," she said, her voice clipped.

Horner cleared his throat, his booming voice a desperate attempt to break the ice. "Look, let's all take a moment to cool down. We can dissect the crash later. Right now, Max needs a clear head for the next race."

With that, Horner steered Max towards a debriefing session, leaving Y/N alone in the charged atmosphere. She picked up a stray bolt, turning it over in her hand, her knuckles white with repressed anger. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the workshop around her.

Just then, Charles walked in, his perceptive eyes catching the glint of tears on her cheeks. "Rough day?" he asked softly.

Y/N choked back a sob. "It's just… I don't know if I can watch him race anymore," she confessed, her voice thick with emotion.

Charles pulled up a chair beside her, his presence a silent comfort. "You know Max," he said gently. "He makes mistakes, but he learns from them."

Y/N shook her head. "This wasn't just a mistake, Charles. It was reckless. And it brought back…" she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Charles squeezed her shoulder in understanding. "The fear," he finished for her. "It's always there, isn't it?"

Y/N nodded, a tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "I can't lose him too," she whispered, her voice cracking.

Charles offered a sad smile. "You won't," he assured her. "Max is stubborn, but he cares about you. He'll learn from this."

His words offered a glimmer of hope. Y/N knew Charles was right. But the fear, the raw terror that had gripped her during the crash, still lingered.

Max, a whirlwind of frustration earlier, had retreated into a sullen silence. Y/N, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, refused to acknowledge him directly. The tension crackled between them, a storm waiting to erupt.

Daniel Ricciardo, ever the peacemaker, tried to lighten the mood. "So, Max," he said, a touch too cheerfully, "what are we having for dinner? Surely Y/N has whipped up some magic in the kitchen?"

Y/N's lips twitched, but she remained focused on her phone, pretending not to hear. Max, still fuming, mumbled a curt, "I don't care."

The forced joviality died a quick death. Charles, sensing the undercurrents, offered, "Actually, I wouldn't mind ordering some takeout. How about some Indian?"

Y/N finally looked up, her voice clipped. "No, thank you, Charles. I'm not particularly hungry."

Max scoffed. "Suit yourself. More for the rest of us, then."

The passive-aggressive jabs continued throughout the evening, each veiled comment a fresh barb. Y/N praised Charles's recent qualifying performance, a clear dig at Max's reckless driving. Max, in turn, bragged about a new training program he was starting, a not-so-subtle jab at Y/N's perceived lack of understanding.

"Honestly that race was mine, Ocon fucked it up for everyone," Max proclaimed.

"Maybe," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "if you hadn't been so busy playing daredevil, you wouldn't have thrown away the race."

The words hung heavy in the air. Max felt a flicker of something cold and sharp twist in his gut. "Playing daredevil?" he scoffed. "I was out there fighting for the win!"

"At what cost?" Y/N's voice cracked, the dam of her emotions threatening to burst. "Do you even understand the fear you put me through?"

Max, for the first time, saw a glimpse of the terror that mirrored his own reckless driving. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn't come.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions. Then, in a moment of horrifying clarity, Max blurted out, "Look, if you can't handle the pressure, maybe you should just—"

The sentence died on his lips as he saw the blood drain from Y/N's face. She stared at him, her eyes filled with a hurt so profound it took his breath away.

"Fine then," she said, her voice a choked whisper. "fuck off and die. see if i care."

The words echoed in the stunned silence. Everyone in the motorhome froze, their eyes wide with shock. Even Max, fueled by anger, felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.

Y/N didn't wait for a response. Tears streaming down her face, she bolted out of the motorhome, the slam of the door a punctuation mark to the shattered silence.

Max stared after her, a tapestry of emotions swirling within him – anger, regret, a terror that mirrored her own. He lunged after her, but Charles, who had witnessed the exchange, caught him by the arm.

"Let her go," Charles said gently, his voice laced with concern. "She needs some space."

Max sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands. "What did I do?" he rasped, the anger replaced by a crushing weight of remorse.

The atmosphere was suffocating. Everyone, even the usually jovial mechanics, seemed to walk on eggshells around the warring couple. Tears streamed down Y/N's face as she walked, the weight of the fight, the fear, and the unspoken hurt threatening to overwhelm her. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

The cool night air did little to soothe the burning in Y/N's eyes. She wandered away from the motorhome complex, her legs numb and directionless. The roar of the track faded behind her, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves. Tears streamed down her face, carving clean tracks through the grime of the day.

Then, she saw it. Half-hidden behind a cluster of trees, a towering mural emerged from the darkness. It was a familiar image – her father, mid-corner, a determined glint in his eyes, the car a blur of yellow and green. A wave of emotions washed over her – grief, pride, and now, a searing anger.

Sinking down onto a nearby bench, Y/N found herself talking to the painted image. "Why didn't you tell me, Dad?" she choked out, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Why didn't you tell me how terrifying it would be to watch someone you love race?"

"Doesn't he understand, Dad? Doesn't he see the risk he takes? It's like he doesn't care! Doesn't care about the fear he puts me through, the terror that I relive every single time I see a car spin out of control!"

She slammed her fist against the concrete wall, a raw scream escaping her lips. The sound echoed in the quiet night, a testament to the storm raging within her. Tears streamed down her face, hot and angry.

"And then," she continued, her voice trembling, "he has the audacity to get mad at me? To act like I'm the one overreacting? Doesn't he see what his actions do? Doesn't he see what he almost took away from me today?"

Silence, except for the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. But in her mind, she could almost hear his voice, warm and reassuring. "coração valente (brave heart)," it seemed to say, the nickname he always used for her. "Fear is a part of it, but it doesn't have to control you."

Y/N wiped her eyes, a flicker of understanding replacing the anger. Her father hadn't raced because it was easy. He raced because of the passion, the thrill, the dance with danger. He wouldn't have wanted her to live in fear, but to find her own strength, her own way to navigate the world he left behind.

The sting in his eyes wasn't just from the acrid smoke billowing from a nearby barbecue. Max's chest ached with a dull ache that had nothing to do with the crash. Y/N's words, "fine then, fuck off and die. See if I care," echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his monumental screw-up.

He couldn't just sit there, stewing in his self-pity. He needed to find her, needed to apologize and explain the terrifying realization that had dawned on him during their tense silence.

Following a hunch, he made his way to the secluded corner where the mural of Ayrton Senna stood. In the dim glow of a single overhead light, he saw Y/N curled up with her back against the wall, her shoulders trembling with silent sobs. A red mark marred her hand where it had connected with the concrete.

His heart lurched. He knelt down beside her, his voice barely a whisper. "Y/N?"

She flinched at the sound, whipping her tear-streaked face towards him. Her eyes, red and puffy, held a storm of emotions – hurt, anger, and something akin to pleading.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat. "I… I shouldn't have said what I said," he began, his voice thick with remorse. "My anger… it clouded everything. I didn't…" He broke off, his own voice cracking.

Tears spilled down Y/N's cheeks. "And I..." she started, her voice trembling. "I never should have said what I did. It was awful, unforgivable of me." Her voice choked on a sob. "I don't… I don't want to lose you, Max. Not like that."

With a choked cry, she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Max held her tight, the dam breaking inside him. He pressed kisses to her hair, each one a silent apology, a promise.

"I get it now, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I understand the fear. I see it reflected in your eyes every time I step onto the track. And I promise, I'll never do anything like that again. Not if it means putting you through that kind of pain."

They clung to each other, a tangle of limbs and broken sobs. The night air vibrated with the raw emotions they were finally releasing. Slowly, the sobs subsided into sniffles, leaving behind a fragile calm.

Max pulled back, wiping away a stray tear from Y/N's cheek with his thumb. "Let's go back," he said gently, his voice hoarse. "We can talk properly, sort things out."

Y/N nodded, her eyes searching his. "Together," she added, a shaky smile playing on her lips.

Max grinned back, the familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes. "Always," he promised. "Together, no matter what the track throws at us."

As they walked back hand-in-hand, the mural of Ayrton Senna seemed to watch over them, a silent guardian of their love, a love forged in fire, tested by fear, and ultimately strengthened by understanding and forgiveness. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with each other, they knew they could face anything.

[adventuringblind]

Cheering From Heaven

Charles Leclerc x Senna!Driver!Reader

Genre: sad but also fluffy

Request: yep! I hope you like it! I actually cried a little writing it. My requests are still open for like... half the grid at this point. So please send me your ideas, I am begging, don't be shy. :)

Summary: reader never got to meet her father, but thanks him everyday for the racing in her DNA. When she overhears a conversation about her over dramatic celebrations, she becomes more reserved. Charles immediately takes notice and is determined to restore the energy she once had.

Warnings: Talks of death and crashes, not proofread (if I ever proofread call the police because it’s not me someone stole my identity).

Notes: written in second person. For the purpose of this fic, the Ferrari strategists know how to do their job.

Y’all have been giving my fics so much love. Thank you all so much 🥺❤️

Masterlist

You were the first female driver on the grid. You worked your way up the ranks just like everyone else. Your mother doing her best to support you despite it being just you and her.

She always said you have racing in your blood. Your father died before you could meet him. The fatal accident of Aryton Senna rocked everyone.

Especially your mother, who had just found out she was pregnant with you.

You were determined to continue his legacy. Knowing he was cheering you on from the afterlife.

When you started competing more often and moving up through the stages. You decided to go by your mother's last name. Not wanting your fathers name to have anything to do with how people saw you as a driver.

You wanted to race for him, not because of him. Nepotism in this sport can make or break someone's career.

When you got up to Formula 1, you cried tears of joy. Knowing that your father was looking out for you.

You were relatively accepted among everyone. You and your teammate Charles got along better than anyone could imagine.

Competing and pushing each other, but still remaining close at the end of the day.

What you didn't know was that some on the grid found you annoying.

You had found fast success and with it came rituals. You wanted to cheer loud enough for your father to hear you. Celebrating enough for the both of you.

It hurt having not known him, but you felt like you did at times. Hearing his name still being praised. You’d watched his races on YouTube repeatedly. You knew he would be ecstatic to see you here.

Everywhere else you were very down to earth and chill. On the podium, however, was a different story. There you let everything go, enjoying yourself for those who couldn’t be there with you. It was your ritual and you loved it. Charles found it entertaining despite not understanding it. You worked hard for your success, why shouldn’t you enjoy it?

You were going to run up and join a group of the guys walking and talking after a race one evening. Charles being one of them. You’d grown feelings for him and even if he didn’t return them, having him as a friend was still great.

They didn’t hear you approach, continuing there conversation without remorse.

“I don’t know man, I find her annoying.”

Charles was immediately confused at this. “Annoying? How so? I find her the least annoying out of everyone else.” He chuckled at his own funny remark.

“I agree. She seems very cocky when she wins. Rubbing it in everyone’s faces.”

A course of similar comments and agreements strung from their mouths. You didn’t stay to hear everything, quickly finding your way back to your hotel room.

Charles had left the conversation not long after. Leaving them the group with one last statement before walking off. “Who cares how she celebrates? Anyone that wins wants to enjoy it, so let her have this.”

While you became quieter and more reserved, Charles became more concerned. You weren’t the sunshine everyone enjoyed having around. You weren’t offering soothing words when someone had an off day. It was strange and he didn’t like it. He became determined to help you through it.

Everyone started talking after your next win. You smiled but said nothing. You looked unfazed by the champaign chaos. You were hardly celebrating.

Everyone else assumed your were sick, but Charles had the feeling there was something else at play.

He’d immediately given into his crush on you. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to escape it since you spent tons of time together. If only he could help you through whatever fought patch you were in. Maybe he could get the confidence to ask you out.

It was now time for the Brazilian Grand-Prix. Imola. The track Ayrton Senna lost his life.

You were hoping to win today for him, and you had a good shot at doing so after an amazing qualifying.

In the evening you decided to visit your father’s memorial. The track was clear like the sky. Pink and orange hues shining down in rays. You dropped to your knees, placing the flower you brought in front of the memorial.

“I hope you can forgive me for not cheering loud anymore.” You cried. Failing to notice the footsteps behind you. “Mom says you’d be proud of me. That you would’ve come to every race. I wish I could’ve known you.”

Charles crouch’s next to you. His hand rubbing circles on your back in a soothing manner. He didn’t say anything, just let you talk. He knows how it feels to miss someone.

“I cheer loudly so that he can hear me. I just know he’d be celebrating with me, so I do enough for the both of us.” You confessed, leaning into Charles’ touch.

“I understand.” He guides your face to look at him, gently wiping your tears with his thumb. “Your dad would be proud of you. I am also proud of you.”

No other words needed to be said. You leaned in, your foreheads now touching. Somehow, that did all the talking for you.

The next day brought excitement and anxiety. You and Charles fighting hard to be at the top. You nearly cried when you won. Charles right behind you in second.

When the cars were parked, you jumped into his arms. Adrenaline flooding through your veins. She the interviewer came to ask you about the race, you looked at Charles. Him nodding at you and giving you a thumbs up for reassurance.

“I just want to say that I’m dedicating this win to my father, Ayrton Senna. I hope to continue his legacy.”

Everyone stared at you before the chanting of your name started. The name everyone knew you by now changed.

You were hesitant to celebrate on the podium. Until Charles took your hand in his and yelled at the top of his lungs. Bathing you in the alcohol. So you finally let loose again, the fans screaming with you.

And when you two were alone again, you realized your father had been watching you. He sent you Charles. A soft ‘thank you’ falls from your lips before kissing Charles Champagne covered lips.

[lescarbille]

for the carcar prompt: interview

answer to : send me a word and I'll write you a Carcar drabble

(use of the actual McLaren "situation" to write angst / I have a will to write Landoscar friendship angst)

“Would you have done that, Carlos?”

Since the beginning of 2025, the races have been marked by a hint of drama. Ink flows between each circuit, like a rain that never ends. They have forgotten what F1 was at one time and now everything takes on an accent of drama. A comment on Lance Stroll becomes a state affair, bringing back accusations of nepotism, Logan’s astonishing results in IndyCar have launched a wave of hatred on the entire Williams team, the turmoil of Red Bull becomes an argument to assail Max with questions while waiting for him to crack (the Mad Maxnarrative seem to have run out of steam).

The real crux of all this rain, of all this ink, is the tense relations between two pairs of teammates: Charles & Lewis and Lando & Oscar.

The prospect of having two number 1 drivers makes the garages tense as the races become tighter and the team orders disputed.

Lando doesn’t give up a position after an undercut. Oscar nearly sends Lando into the barriers after a risky move. Lewis implies that Ferrari favours Charles and Charles says it might be time for Lewis to retire and take Fernando with him.

Carlos finds himself in the middle of the rain and storm. While his relationship with Oscar is a closely guarded secret to the media, the public sees them as good friends. Lando is his best friend on the grid. Charles his former teammate. They ask him for his opinion at every race.

They just don't know how much Carlos loves Oscar and how he swears to be on his side.

“What would I have done?”

“Refused the swap.”

He wishes he still have the opportunity to say "Fuck off" to Ferrari on team radio, when they messed up his strategy, when they leave him drive alone to focus on Charles like in 2023 in Abu Dhabi.

He let Oscar says "Fuck Off", he knows how he feels, he won't denied his right. Fuck off Zak. Fuck off the strategy. Fuck off McLaren. He's kind, too kind sometimes, but Oscar is everything except an idiot.

Once again, McLaren’s strategies have driven a wedge between its drivers. Oscar and Lando’s already strained relationship is hanging by a thread; it’s a wonder they still speak cordially to each other. He don't think Oscar could say "fuck off" to Lando. They are on a same boat and if it sinks Oscar would still save Lando. He cares too much about their friendship, no matter how difficult it is at the moment.

Carlos hates them, McLaren and the media, for that. They were, are, good friends and now they are haunted by the narrative of Prost and Senna. The clash of the McLaren titans all over again.

“I would have done it", Carlos says. "I would have refuse."

Lando will hate him a little, he don't care, Carlos is right.

Carlos has become more selfish and quicker to defend Oscar, he hates seeing his hurt expression when team strategies are failing him… again.

“Oscar was way ahead, with better tires, he should have gone after Lewis. Lando wouldn’t have succeeded and if he had, the end of the race would have been extremely difficult for him. Oscar did it, he succeeded, he managed those tires better, that’s why he won, he was more strategic. He did well.”

I'm proud of him. As always.

Oscar always does well, but Carlos’ opinion has become biased, he’s just lucky it’s always backed up by facts. Oscar is too good of a driver to be given anything other than his future world championship title.

“Thank you, Carlos.”

When he leaves the interview, he sees Oscar's disappointment in his eyes, as if each of his first places, as if each of his points became a new knife. Carlos hates that, and he will protect Oscar from them, because he loves him.

He puts a hand on his back when he passes by him: I'm here, it'll be fine.

[luimagines]

Hey it's totally still your birthday right?

*'he/they's your Wild*

Enjoy mild totk spoilers (not really takes place post-botw pre-totk)

---

He was gone, and it was fine. You have no clue where he went, and neither did he. He had simply stepped into that dreaded portal, all but vanishing without a trace, and that was that.

Goodbyes had been short, they always had to be when your spouse was the legendary hero.

It was hard to remember sometimes that your Link was the hero of Hyrule. Hard to imagine that those same lively eyes of his had stared evil incarnate in the flesh before essentially vanquishing it. The same blond that had won you over catching staminoka bass with nothing but his bare hands and a dream and had diligently followed you along as you showed them the beauty of the new world that had surrounded him despite the terrors of the calamity a hundred years ago-- had also been the one who stood in an overtaken Hyrule castle and defended it, having long since grown and regained his strength (something they credited to you despite your insistence otherwise).

It was hard-- but not impossible. Especially then, as you stood to see him off. Even though they no longer carried the legendary sword on their back, the unmistakable strong stance he had told you what he was going to do before he even uttered a word.

You wouldn't stop him, you couldn't, but even still you found yourself torn between your heart and your mind. The logical part of you knew however (even if it pained you to see him off) that the world needed them more than you did. It wasn't surprising, you married the hero of Hyrule for Hylia's sake! But it still hurts. You knew, deep down, that you were always going to have to share them with the rest of the world, even if you wanted to selfishly lock them away and keep him all to yourself.

But none of that really mattered now, did it? The hugs and the kisses and the parting words went by too fast, everything was just too fast, now you were left despondant on the outskirts of Hateno, a pair of lovers setting out only for one to return.

You felt numb, a flurry of emotions welling up in your chest only for your mind to be miles away, unable to speak. You don't remember the walk back to the village, nor how you ended up in Link's house (or was it Zelda's now? It was never really clear, you had to ask at some point). You glanced around, slowly beginning to shuffle around, idly stacking the stray papers and nicknacks of Zelda's research scattered around the small area.

You didn't think about it, continuing to meander around the room, idly fixing things even if they weren't messy. It was useless to dwell on it, being sad wouldn't bring him back, and you were no good to everyone else if you were beside yourself with grief for a hylian who wasn't even dead yet.

It was fine. He was going to come back. You just... had to keep busy. Hateno had no shortage of jobs for you as it continued to grow and develop. You still had to drop off those cloths Senna ordered to the dye shop. Zelda still needed you to help teaching the children at the school until another official one was found-- that one was pretty long-term, likely to keep you busy and on your feet. And then of course you had promised Zelda that you would ask Nagda for gardening tips in order to try and help Aster, who seemed better able to grasp onto information about her father's vegetables rather than gardening in practice. You still hadn't completely gotten over your uneasiness towards the flower-obsessed--

Oh. You were crying.

The blurriness in your eyes and the wet streaks on your cheeks were unmistakable, yet it's presence still caught you off guard. You couldn't tell why, you were fine, it wasn't a big deal. 'It's fine, you're okay' you repeated to yourself like a mantra, Link was coming back and everything would--

"Are you alright?" a quiet, worried voice broke you out of your mental stoop. Your body froze up, still facing away from the concerned blonde in a feeble attempt to maintain some dignity. When did Zelda get here? How much time had passed.

"I uh, I'm sorry I just-" you fumble your words, not really having anything else to say but 'sorry'. For what exactly was unclear: for being caught in her house unannounced, for moving her things around as you tidied up, perhaps even for crying in general, not being strong enough to bear the load that was required of you as the hero's spouse.

You felt like a child, having been caught red-handed at your most vulnerable with no excuses for the way you were acting. Instead of being scolded though, or even being questioned as to what exactly you were doing there and not your own home, Zelda immediately met you with nothing but compassion. The blonde frowned a bit, seeing your clearly distressed state, immediately stepping forward to bring your crying form into her arms.

You shakily exhaled, deflating a bit. You apologize again, wiping at your eyes even if it only accomplished in making your eyes more irritated and red as more tears make their way out. You hated it. You hated it and you hated him for making you go through it, even if it was illogical to do so.

For once, even if it was selfish, you desperately wished for simpler times, when it was just the two of you against the world. When some days your biggest problem was entertaining yourself during long journeys between stables on your way to the next province. When your biggest plight was having to scramble after your partner when one of their idiotic stunts he swore wouldn't go wrong did just that. Hell, you'd even take before the calamity was defeated and the only people you two had were each other. Everything changed when you guys settled down and started placing roots.

Now it seemed like you saw less and less of him with every new task, and now he was just gone. You missed just looking over and seeing somebody once told me the world was gonna roll me, I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. She was looking kinda dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead. Well- looking back at you, your somebody, Link. Now he's gone and you don't know when they're coming back or even if they're safe.

You don't say any of this though, especially not when the rescued princess herself was right in front of you. It was a stupid thought only expressed in the heat of the moment, and you had long since learned to control those thoughts and urges. You weren't some child that needed to lash out and hurt those closest to you in your despair; you were an adult, the spouse of the hero of Hyrule who chose to strengthen the remains of Hyrule alongside the princess-- you needed to respond appropriately.

You gather yourself, you have no choice but to after all, crying in the princess' arms wasn't a solution nor a luxury that you could afford. You reveal everything to her, what little information you did have anyway-- the portal, how he left through it, and essentially not having any information on their whereabouts or even if he was safe.

"Oh, I see" Zelda responds sympathetically, understanding your plight and Link's potentially dire situation. Her lips together as she nods to herself, a sudden look of determination filling her eyes. She pulls back from you, looking into your eyes as she grabs onto your shoulders.

"Link is a strong and reliable swordsman whose resilience knows no bounds" she starts in hopes that some of her resolve spark up your own "I have no doubt that he'll return to you to the best of his ability. Please have faith in him, if not as your partner then as the hero and as my dearest companion".

You nod, simply taking the words in. Link will be fine, he has to be fine. Your heart couldn't take it otherwise.

You don't know what you'd do if he wasn't fine.

:)))))

..........You shrek rolled me.... in the middle of an intense fanfic!?!?!?!?!?

For my birthday- you evil mastermind you, how dare.

Is it really spoilers though if it just mentions that like Zelda was a teacher? I heard about that but I fail to see how that has anything to do with the plot so I think you're fine. Unless there was another thing that I missed because I don't know any better.

Thank you Bee!!! I wanted to yell and scream. :D

[heylittleriotact]

Open Invitation - Thirty-Six (Plot-Twist)

In which:

We learn that Echo is a property owner

Guess who's back, back again - Senna's back - tell a friend

Senna and Echo chat rituals

Senna drops a bomb on Echo

All hurt, no comfort

Seriously though

Excerpt:

“Remember how I said Cazador was now on my list way back when I first learned of him from Astarion and it turned out that you knew of him too?”  “I do.” Senna nodded. “Well he’s been bumped to the top. He needs to be destroyed before we deal with the Absolute, because if we wait until after the fact and the tadpoles are gone, Astarion is vulnerable once more, and I’m not keen on that for obvious reasons.”  “Terribly practical of you.” Senna stretched out his legs and surveyed his fingernails with disinterest.  “If we don’t kill Cazador - if he’s able to get his hands on Astarion again, he will die.” Echo said. “As it turns out, apparently Cazador wasn’t simply interested in enslaving a few spawn for his own sick interests. Astarion, along with the other six spawn Cazador created, are materials to be used in a ritual…”  Senna’s eyes flicked to Echo’s at mention of the ritual. “A ritual that will fulfill the terms of a contract with none other than Mephistopheles.” The verdant eyes darkened almost imperceptibly at the archdevil’s name.  “Astarion will be destroyed as part of the sacrifice demanded by Mephistopheles, and in exchange Lord Cazador will become an entirely new kind of creature - a vampire of untold power who is not beholden to vile hunger, nor afraid of the light of the sun.” Her voice shook slightly despite herself. “I need to stop him. Yesterday. And I need your help to do it.” Senna considered her with that same unnerving intensity she had become accustomed to over so many years.  “And what of the vampire lord’s little ritual?” He whispered, eyes unblinking and fixed on hers. “Astarion will take it for himself - if he chooses to do so…” She drew a deep breath. “And I won’t stand in his way if that’s what he wants.” Echo was surprised when Senna’s flawless, pale face widened in a massive smile and he laughed, his eyes still searching her face as he giggled.  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Grinning madly, his eyes wandered. “You have, haven’t you?” The table that was between them was gone, swept effortlessly aside by long limbs to shatter against the wall on the other side of the room, and she was on her back beneath him, shards of glass cutting into her back as liquor seeped into her hair. He held her fast with the long fingers of his hand around her throat, his palm crushing into her windpipe with calculated pressure. Gasping, she raked her own fingers against his hand and his wrist, struggling for purchase as she reeled in shock.

 Pairing: Tav (High Elf Feylock) x Astarion

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Cycle Breaking, Happy Ending (but not without a lot of pain first), very involved archfey patron.

Disclaimer: Complex trauma delving with direct and implied reference to various forms of abuse, including rape/sexual assault, as well as implied self-harm, including suicidal thoughts/behaviour. Explicit violence. Smuuut.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 19: Taken

aureia sits with thancred in dawn's respite. thancred x wol, pre-relationship. mentions of past aymeric x wol. set during stormblood patches. written for ffxivwrite2024. rating: teen 1219 words ao3 link

Dust motes dance in the air, caught in a spiral of rose-pink light that heralds the coming dawn.

Aureia watches them blankly, head tilted to the side, fingers twisted in her lap. Her lips are dry, her limbs like lead, her eyes puffy and aching as if she has been punched in the face. Exhaustion fuzzes on the edges of her mind, and yet she cannot bring herself to sleep. She floats in ambiguity, neither here nor there, barely cognizant of what is going on around her save for the man slumbering at her side.

But he isn’t slumbering. Thancred may look like he is asleep, but he isn’t. His body lies still on the bed, still and lifeless, only a hint of breath as something within him clings to life. She has seen comatose patients before. This is nothing like that. This is nothing she has seen before.

He is simply… gone.

Where are you now, Thancred? Where did you go?  

She lowers her eyes, her gaze sweeping across his deathly still face. In the weeks since his collapse, his hair has grown, a patchy beard spreading across his cheeks. A sign of the passing time, how the seconds and hours and weeks march on, beating to the sound of an inevitable drum.

The situation has been explained to her ad nauseum. Kan-E-Senna assures her that his heart is strong, his body compensating for his stolen soul. He is not in immediate danger. He isn’t dying.

She doesn’t know if that makes it worse. Dying, she can handle. Dying, she knows. She has held the hands of more friends than she can count as they succumbed to injuries and slipped into the beyond. But this? He’s gone, vanished, his consciousness pulled elsewhere, wherever that may be. She can sit by him all she wants, and he will never know. Even the dying have some sense of those who remain at their sides. He does not. Cannot. He—

A buzz in her ear. Her linkpearl activates, its hum reverberating uncomfortably through her skull. She grimaces and taps it, resisting the urge to pull the whole damn thing from her ear and chuck it across the room. Aymeric will be on the other end. She hasn’t spoken to him since the last Alliance meeting.

Her gut twists and she shoves all thought of him from her mind.

Exhaling a shaky breath, she slips from her chair and folds her legs beneath her, pressing her back against Thancred’s bed. For all she knows, he could be in danger. Or he could be lost. Or he could be fine. But it is the uncertainty of it that drives her mad. She could imagine a hundred scenarios, a hundred possibilities, and each one could be false. Or they could be true. All she knows is that he is not here.

He was taken from her.  

It’s unfair, the way these circumstances played out. It was only a month ago that they were sitting on a rooftop in Ala Mhigo, clear of mind and sound of heart. She was shaken, on edge, pushed to her fucking limit by the Alliances maneuvers, the Garlean threat, and her brother’s manipulations. She should have expected it. He was always a loose end left uncut. It was only a matter of time before he came for her. But she broke the day that Kallias showed his face in the streets and unearthed every secret she had buried deep. The precious Warrior of Light, a former Garlean operative hiding in plain sight. Not that the word former meant anything.  

The news sent shockwaves through the Alliance, the Resistance, the Eorzean city-states. Even the Scions of the Seventh Dawn couldn’t look her in the face. Well… not all of them.

Thancred could.

To say they have had a difficult relationship would be an understatement. A friendship shattered, whatever connection they had battered and bruised and broken beyond repair. They know each other too well. They know how to hurt. And the hurts are still there, years of harsh words spoken and accusations made. And yet at her lowest point, when he had ever reason to shun her and turn his back on her forever, he was the one there.

Not Aymeric, who once said he loved her. Not Urianger, who she once considered a brother. Not Alisaie, who was her dearest friend.

It was Thancred who made the choice to stand at her side when everyone else fled. No questions. No explanations. Simply a choice made unconditionally because he…

Well.

“You didn’t have to do that. You have every reason not to trust me after what I’ve done.”  

“We all have secrets, Aureia. We have all done things we are ashamed of. I know I certainly have. Why should I hold that against you when I know that is not who you are?”  

“But—”  

“I do not care who you once were. I care who you are now. And that is the end of it.”  

Tears sting in her eyes. She draws her knees into her chest and blinks them back furiously. The Warrior of Light does not cry. The Warrior of Light is a beacon of hope. The Warrior of Light is heroic, exceptional, unburdened by the weight of ordinary troubles. Not that this is an ordinary trouble of any kind, but…

“Aureia?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, clearing her mind, and opens them.

Tataru stands before her in a pool of light, her pink outfit brighter than usual in the morning sun. Her hand is pressed against her mouth, her worried gaze passing from Aureia to Thancred and back again. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says quickly, stumbling over her words. “I thought… well, I wondered… I can take over, if you like. If it would help. You’ve spent the whole night here. I think you could use some rest.”

Aureia says nothing.

“I’ve… drawn a bath for you,” Tataru continues cautiously. “Well. Not drawn, exactly, but prepared. It’s ready in the suite upstairs, if you want it. I added some flowers and some bubbles. Silly, I know, but—”

Aureia smiles quietly. “Thank you,” she says.

Tataru nods. “It’s going to be all right, you know.” She looks down, twisting the hem of her tunic. “I’m certain of that.”

The linkpearl hums again. Aureia flinches, cupping her ear with her hand, still unable to bring herself to take it out. Would it be the right thing or the wrong thing? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know if she can look Aymeric in the face after everything she’s done, let alone talk to him.

A shadow passes in front of her and warm hands wrap around hers.

“I mean it,” Tataru says. “Rest. Please. He would want you to. In fact, I believe he would be quite angry if you didn’t.”

“…he would, wouldn’t he.”

“Always so concerned about everyone else, but not himself. Not unlike someone else I know.”

Aureia raises her head, meeting her eyes.

Tataru smiles. “I’ll tell you if anything changes,” she says. “I promise.”

Aureia nods. With a heavy weight in her heart, she slowly unfurls and gets to her feet, forcing herself to walk away from his bed. She can’t look back.

If she does, she will never leave.

[cieloclercs]

𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 , cl16 — chapter five

pairing. charles leclerc x senna!oc part. 5/? warnings. basically just pure angst 🫠 yeah it’s gonna be like that for a while 😭 swearing, arthur is such an icon in this icl word count. 5.7k

SAUDADE. in which childhood rivals turned best friends realise they were always meant to be something more

05. everything changes (nothing changes)

author’s note. so i’ve had this chapter written for about 2 months. no i don’t have an excuse as to why i haven’t posted it yet 🫠 but i figured i’m going through a bit of a dry spell in my writing at the moment so i may as well post it 😭 hope you guys enjoy, and as always, please leave a comment or reblog if you did !! <3

read it on wattpad!

previous: chapter four next ➜ chapter six

Nice Côte d'Azur Airport 8 February 2021

NOA DOESN’T SEE Charles for another two weeks. She doesn’t hear from him either, not including his brief message confirming her flight’s arrival time. He’s giving her space, just as promised, and she finds herself grateful for that. The time in between their meeting at the café and the looming date of her temporary move to Monaco is for setting the record straight. When Noa breaks the news to her parents, they immediately assume the best of the situation – they’ve patched things up, got over themselves and finally rekindled their friendship. She flushes bright red when she has to cut off her mother’s delighted cheers, and her heart aches to see the grin on her face fall. We’re not friends, she tells them firmly, despite the pain it causes her. Noa is doing this for her career, not for some distant, nostalgic memory of the boy she’d once thought the world of. No. It’s her turn to be selfish for once.

Flávia is understandably upset. Just as Pascale considers Noa to be like her daughter, she has always viewed Charles as a second son. Even though she tries to deny it on several occasions over the weeks before Noa’s flight to Monaco, she isn’t stupid. The first few months after she and Charles stopped speaking to each other, Flávia had been fairly vocal about what she thought of the whole situation. She understood the hurt that they were both feeling, but as far as she was concerned, they still needed each other. Her greatest fear was that they would both continue to grow into the cut-throat world of racing without the person they trusted most at their side. As someone who experienced how difficult life could be at the pinnacle of motorsports, even as only a family member of one of the racers, Flávia worries for them. She had Gabriel to lean on after Ayrton’s death – her best friend and the love of her life. Noa and Charles, as long as they’re apart, don’t have that.

Speaking of her father, he seems to understand her reasoning a little more. Gabriel Borges is ambitious if nothing else. He fought tooth and nail to win his championships and solidify his place in the Formula 1 hall of fame. It’s a trait he’s passed on to his daughter. Sponsorships like this are important now, with racing becoming more and more lucrative with each passing season. In order to succeed, a driver needs the backing of some of the most influential brands in the world. For a rookie, it simply doesn’t get bigger than Chanel. Both Noa and Gabriel know that this is an opportunity she can’t pass up, no matter how difficult it may be for her with Charles there. They need to make it work.

He may not necessarily agree with her ‘keep him at arm’s length’ approach, but if that’s what she thinks is going to work for her, then Gabriel will support her through it.

With Luiz and Eloísa settling into their apartment in Italy, it’s only her parents who wave her goodbye at the airport. Noa has never been a fan of flying. The seats are too cramped and the people too noisy – she can never find a position comfortable enough to fall asleep. Sometimes it can be peaceful simply watching the world pass by beneath her from the window, but eventually, miles upon miles of ocean gets a little boring. So Noa spends the first thirteen hours of her flight wide awake, silently begging the couple in front of her to do something about their screaming baby. Stopping off at Heathrow for the change over feels like a slice of heaven. Just to be able to get up and stretch her legs for a little while is pure bliss. But within an hour she’s back on a different plane, looking down over the English Channel, over Normandy and eventually, the south of France. The nerves begin to set in then. There’s no going back once this plane lands – she’ll be stuck in Monaco with the person she most wants to avoid in the world for the next three weeks. Granted, she’ll have her second family there with her too, but Noa doubts she’ll be able to shake the awkward feeling even when they’re around.

Jetlag’s a bitch, is all she can think when she steps off the plane and into the harsh winter sunlight. It makes her skull ache, beating down on her, yet offering little to no warmth – typical Europe. If only it was summer here like back home. She’s grown accustomed to heat in the high twenties and sleeping with all the windows open. Checking the weather app on her phone, she sees that right now the temperature is barely breaking ten degrees. Lovely. On top of that, Noa hasn’t slept for practically an entire day. She can already imagine the headlines if she gets photographed – Gabriel Borges’ daughter spotted wandering airport sleep-deprived and wearing no makeup! The press would have a field day with that one.

She just about manages to haul her suitcase through security before collapsing on one of the lobby benches. It’s her own fault for overpacking, really. She’s never been one to prioritise well when it comes to clothes. Noa pulls her phone out of her pocket, quickly refreshing it to see if Charles has messaged her yet – sure enough, sent seven minutes ago: I’m outside. Do you want me to come in and help with your bags? Despite the contempt she still feels towards him, Noa could have cried with pure joy. She sends back a brief yes before struggling up off the bench, all but dragging her luggage through the lobby now. She can only hope he gets here quickly, because her arms are surely about to come out of their sockets if she has to carry these any further.

When his figure appears in the distance, the nerves return. He’s dressed like he doesn’t want to be spotted, in a grey hoodie and shorts, large enough that he can practically hide the entirety of his face in the collar. No one seems to notice him. For the moment anyway. When Charles eventually spots her, he seems to hesitate for a moment – like she’d seen him do at the café, arms hanging uselessly by his side as if he wants to outstretch them towards her, but remembers at the last minute that he can’t do that anymore. Noa’s eyes are glued to the ground as she walks towards him. They meet in the middle. He murmurs a brief hello, and when she doesn’t reply, takes her bags without another word.

They walk out to his car in silence. It’s a black Mercedes G63 – inconspicuous by his standards, and perhaps those of the travellers milling around them (many of them are en route to Monaco, after all). It has black tinted windows, she notices. Charles tells her to climb into the passenger seat while he loads her bags into the back. She hasn’t the energy left to complain. It takes everything in her not to fall asleep as soon as she’s sat down, eyes drooping in the dimmed light, a hazy warmth taking over her body. She jumps slightly as Charles opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine. Before Noa can really process what’s going on around her, they’ve already left the airport.

"How was your flight?" Charles asks after a few minutes, soft spoken and hesitant. An absentminded hum is what greets him.

"It was alright." she murmurs back, fighting off the sudden urge to yawn. There's an edge of discontentedness in her voice, an air of frustration and annoyance about her. Noa has always hated flying, he thinks. Even as children all those years ago, she'd kick up the biggest fuss possible before so much as stepping foot on a plane. His mother always joked about it being because she can't sit still for more than a few hours, which, he supposes, had a fair amount of truth. Charles knows it's because the whole thing made her anxious. He's held her hand at takeoff enough times to have realised it, even if she never spoke the words to him out loud.  The memory almost makes him smile. Then he remembers where he is, and his jaw clenches shut.

“Just to let you know, Maman, Arthur and Lorenzo will all be home when we arrive.” Charles is, once again, the one to speak up when they lapse into silence, “They’ve planned a, uh, sort of welcome home – welcome back meal.” He relays, glancing at Noa anxiously out of the corner of his eye. She’s slumped in her seat. The only sign she’s even listening to him is the tiny hum she lets out. “I can tell them you’re too tired to do it today, though, if you’d like. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind pushing it back to tomorrow –“

“No, it’s fine.” Noa cuts across him quickly. “That’s really sweet of them.”

Charles nods. He thinks back to that morning; helping Lorenzo pin up the ‘welcome home’ banner above the archway leading from the kitchen to the living room; watching with a wistful smile as his mother set out a tray of paçoca, the little cylinders of peanut butter Noa used to love when they were younger, on the kitchen table. Where she managed to get hold of them Charles doesn’t know, considering they’re a sweet pretty much exclusive to Brazil. He tries not to think about how Noa will react to it all. The thought digs up old memories he'd rather stayed buried, for the sake of his heart.

“If you want you can get some sleep now. I know you’re probably jetlagged.” He speaks up again after a beat of silence, quieter this time, “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Noa doesn’t reply for a moment. She’s still turned away from him ever so slightly, but as he glances to the side, he can see her expression reflected in the window. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, biting down hard from the looks of it. He doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, but her eyes appear glossy, brimming with unshed tears. There’s an ache in his heart that he’s not sure how to properly describe. Cathartic might be the only word close enough. It hurts, but at the same time, it’s almost freeing.

“If that’s ok with you.” She finally speaks, after what feels like an age. Her head turns to the side until she’s looking at him. Charles keeps his gaze on the road, but he can see her in his periphery.

“Of course.” He mumbles, a little hoarse. His heart is screaming at his head to turn, to smile at her, to show a little of the warmth they used to share for each other, in the wildest, most fanciful hope she may be reminded of it and find it in herself to forgive him there and then. In the end, he doesn’t turn. Instead, he hears the faint rustling of fabric on skin as Noa curls up a little to the side, leaning her head against the window. It falls silent again. Now Charles is the one with glossed over eyes, battling himself.

“Thank you.” Her voice, melodic as ever, cuts through the quiet. This time he does turn – but she’s not looking at him, already half asleep, eyes closed and fluttering ever so slightly underneath their lids. He watches her until he runs the risk of coming off the road. Charles knows she’s already asleep before he has the chance to say anything in reply.

Noa tends to have very vivid dreams. She remembers many a time closing her eyes and being greeted with an explosion of colour, scarlet race cars screaming down asphalt tracks, her flag: emerald, gold, deep blue, waving her across the finish line. A glinting trophy is thrust into her hands, and she lifts it high into the air, watching the crowd raise up their arms with her – a sea of red and yellow. But today, Noa closes her eyes and sees nothing but darkness. Charles is nudging her gently awake, it seems, less than a split second after falling into her slumber. Bleary-eyed, she sits up. The Leclerc house, her second home, sits gleaming in the frosty winter sunlight like a beacon. A thrill of excitement grips her heart. It’s been so long since she’s seen Pascale and Lorenzo – far, far too long. Her head turns, a half-smile on her face, to find Charles watching her. It falls. The sky seems to darken.

“You ready to go?” he asks. Noa nods solemnly, waiting for him to open the car door and climb out before sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. When she too steps out onto the pavement, her expression is steeled.

Charles is holding her bags in either of his hands. He gives her a look that, after years of knowing each other, she can interpret in an instant – Don’t even try it, I’m taking them in for you. She feels a small surge of gratefulness, but every positive emotion seems to be drowned out by her crushing nerves right now. Noa’s not exactly sure why she feels so nervous. These people are her second family, after all. Maybe it’s the nagging fear in the back of her mind that too much has changed; that things will never go back to the happy, perfect way they used to be.

The doorbell ringing brings her back the present. They’re stood on the front porch now, shoulder to shoulder, tense and stiff. Noa pulls at a loose thread on her joggers, focussing with absolute resolve on the door in front of her – paint peeling away ever so slightly at the edge. She knows if she brushed her fingers over it, they would come away dusted with white paint flakes. A second, maybe two passes. The door swings open.

All her nerves simply melt away as soon as she sees Pascale; arms already held out wide and motherly, eyes glistening with soon-to-be-shed tears, and the most genuine smile Noa has ever seen anyone wear. She looks only slightly older than she remembers. A few more wrinkles perhaps, a couple more grey hairs, but in essence, exactly the same. Constant. At least this much hasn’t changed.

“Ma fille!” My girl. Pascale gasps loudly. She’s rushing forwards, pulling Noa inside and engulfing her in a hug before she even knows what is happening – but the familiarity of it is so easy to melt into. The young woman rests her forehead briefly against her shoulder, suddenly unable to stop smiling, when before she’d been wondering how she would manage to fake one. Of course, she’s known all along how much she’s missed Pascale. The woman has been like a second mother to her for practically a decade. But being here now makes her realise the full force of the emotion. It feels like returning home after a long vacation, when all you want to do is sleep in the comfort of your own bed and relish in the sensation of being utterly safe. That’s how Pascale feels to Noa. Safe.

“Oh, look at you!” she gasps again, pulling away to place her hands on either of Noa’s cheeks. “You’ve grown so beautiful!”

In the two years it’s been since she last saw the Leclercs, Noa has blossomed. From a scrawny eighteen-year-old with skinny elbows and seemingly untameable curls, she’s truly grown into herself. Thanks to training, she’s attained the ‘athlete’s build’ she always craved as a teenager. Days spent soaking up the Brazilian sun on Ipanema beach have bronzed her skin, giving it an almost golden hue. Perhaps it’s the salt air, but even Noa’s unruly curls seem to have matured – instead of going frizzy in the heat and falling messily over her eyes, they now frame her tanned face perfectly. Honeyed streaks of blonde run all the way through to the ends. She looks different, she knows that. But it never hits her until she meets people again who have been absent from her life for years.

“Thank you.” Noa can’t help but giggle. Pascale merely holds her tighter, seemingly inspecting every inch of her face for anything else that may have changed. She can see the surprise and the elation in her eyes – but there’s sadness too, an odd mixture, as if she’s battling with regret. Noa supposes it’s to be expected. They went from seeing each other at least every month to all but no contact for two years. Pascale is as affected by it as she is.

As soon as Noa is released from her grip, she turns to face the other Leclerc brothers, who have been watching the whole time with fond smiles and wide eyes. She goes to Lorenzo first, since Arthur has already seen her fairly recently. The eldest of the brothers opens him arms to her gladly, and she steps straight into them. Lorenzo has always been like her protector. As the boys got older and, as boys tended to do, teased her or played too rough (case in point Arthur almost drowning her at the beach one time), he was always the one to give her a hug and scold them afterwards. With only little brothers (Charles didn’t count, as her best friend), Lorenzo was to her the older brother she never had but always found herself wishing for.

“Woah, how much have you grown? A foot?” he says, pulling away only slightly so her arms are still clasped around his back, and his come to rest on her shoulders. Noa giggles softly. It was a long standing joke that, even at eighteen, she barely rose to the height of Charles or Lorenzo’s shoulder. Miraculously, her long-awaited growth spurt arrived once most girls her age stopped growing entirely. Now she stands at a fairly respectable five foot six – though still short enough for Lorenzo to use her head as an arm rest, he quickly realises. Noa waves him away with a playful glare.

“Did he talk to you in the car? Or was it deathly silent?” he asks, not even needed to use Charles’ name for her to know exactly who he is talking about. His eyebrows raise as if he’s joking, but Noa can sense the hard edge of frustration in his voice. She smiles at him sheepishly.

“I wouldn’t know. I fell asleep.”

Lorenzo snorts. That’s all they say on the matter, because Arthur is soon weaselling his way in between them to give her a welcome hug. Apparently, a minute is far too long for his brother to spend with her whilst he’s stuck waiting on the sidelines.

Charles’ feet padding on the carpeted staircase draw Noa’s eyes unwillingly to him. She hadn’t even noticed him exit the room, too caught up in reunions and holding back tears to pay much attention to her surroundings. He’s taken her bags up to her room, he tells her. She merely nods in reply. The tension doesn’t remain for long – Pascale doesn’t let it. Soon enough, everyone is gathering in the kitchen, all proud, knowing smiles from the Leclercs and gasps from Noa as she catches sight of the ‘welcome home’ banner strung up across the archway. She’d known, of course, that they were planning something, thanks to Charles’ warning, but she didn’t expect something like this. They’ve brought another long, wooden table from God knows where into the room, placing it end to end with the main kitchen table to make more room for the spread set out across it. A white floral tablecloth covers the wood, and on top of it, tiered stands of seemingly all the food she could ever eat – fresh strawberries, watermelon, French cheese (which Noa had been introduced to by the Leclercs, and was shocked to find she actually loved), pineapple, even some chocolate and cupcakes (something she’ll later say is just a one off to her nutritionist), and finally, in the very centre, a bowl full of paçoca, her favourite childhood sweet. She remembers Charles calling her strange for essentially eating peanut butter on its own – but even today, it really is her one weakness.

“Oh, meu Deus.” Oh my God. She whispers. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, holding back the half-sob she can feel bubbling up in her throat. “This – this is too much. You really didn’t have to –“

“Noa.” It’s Arthur that cuts her off, rolling his eyes fondly, “Just let us do something nice for you. Call it a late birthday gift.” He adds with a smirk. Noa scoffs. A part of her had thought maybe they wouldn’t remember her birthday – of course, she was wrong about that.

“This is amazing.” She speaks up softly after a moment, “Thank you so much.” Her throat closes around the words ever-so-slightly, vision blurring, heart aching in the best way possible. Pascale moves forward to pull her body into hers, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We missed you so much, petit ange.” She murmurs, “We’re just glad to have you back with us.”

I’m glad too, Noa thinks. She’s not naïve enough to believe it will all be smooth sailing from here; not as long as the pair of sad green eyes burning into her back remain. But this, she believes fully, this she can deal with. Reuniting with her second family has been a long time coming.

They eat like it’s the old times, bar Noa and Charles’ playful bickering (fallen flat, almost dead now). Pascale insists on piling her plate as high as possible, mumbling something about athlete’s diets being too sparse (or at least, that’s what she could make out with her questionable French vocabulary). Arthur doesn’t spare a thought before diving straight into the cupcake and chocolate stand, ignoring his mother’s protests about him letting their ‘guest’ choose first. Lorenzo opts for the fresh fruit more than the confectionary. Charles tries to resist the pull of sugar, better than Arthur admittedly, but his attempts are short lived. By any right, that amount of food should never disappear as quickly as it does – but before they know it, every last morsel is gone. Noa sits back in her seat, deep in conversation with Pascale about latest goings on in her family life, finding her eyes growing heavier with each passing second. Everything around her feels pleasantly hazy; comfortable. It’s the same way she feels sat at home with her parents and her brother after a good meal, lounged on the living room sofas watching cheesy Brazilian telenovelas. Like she’s safe to just be herself.

Pascale tells Lorenzo, Charles and Arthur to collect all the dirty plates and begin the washing up. They know that refusing isn’t an option, so it isn’t long before she and Noa are alone. It must be mid-afternoon by now, the Brazilian woman thinks, but her limbs are as heavy as if she’s stayed up all night and well into the morning – which, she supposes, technically she has. Pascale is observant enough to have already noticed, luckily for her. They’ve spent all of five minutes talking in the living room when she tells her to go up to her room and sleep off the jet lag.

“Oh, but –“ Noa is quick to interject, “I haven’t even asked how things are going for you yet.” She says guiltily. Pascale has been so fixated on catching up with every single moment of the last two years she has missed, that there hasn’t even been time to cover anything else. Noa is acutely aware that the last time they saw each other, it had only been a year since Hervé passed away. She knows as well as anybody that sometimes the people that look the most put-together are the ones who are struggling the most. She just wants to make certain that Pascale is doing ok – truly ok.

“I’ll still be here tomorrow.” The woman reassures her with a gentle chuckle. Noa’s concerned expression falls into a tired, but content smile. That’s the beauty of it – right now, they really do have all the time in the world to catch up. Until of course the new season begins. But three weeks before her soon-to-be packed schedule feels like a lifetime.

Noa retreats slowly upstairs, not so much as sparing a glance towards her unpacked bags, or even attempting to change out of her airport clothes before she collapses onto the bed, and almost immediately falls straight to sleep. The ease with which she already seems to have slipped back into life in the Leclerc house (which almost feels like home) is unexpected, but by no means unwelcome. She just hopes she’ll be able to carry that feeling of safety with her into the coming weeks, when undoubtedly, some difficult conversations will need to be had.

By the time the Leclerc brothers have finished the washing up – a difficult task, what with Charles and Arthur squabbling over who gets to dry the plates and who has to do the unpleasant job of actually washing them, whilst Lorenzo, serene as ever, allocates himself the task of sorting the various items of crockery away – Pascale is sat alone in the living room. She looks calm, quietly assured, but at the same time, they can sense a level of disappointment that wasn’t there before. Charles fears, before his mother’s gaze even turns in his direction, that that disappointment is meant for him.

“Où est allée Noa?” Where did Noa go? Lorenzo asks, taking the seat next to Pascale and looping his arm fondly around her shoulders. Arthur, not so delicately, throws himself face down on the long sofa facing the television, leaving Charles to occupy the lone arm chair on the other side of the room. It’s ironic, that he’s separated from his family that way, when he’s been feeling separated emotionally for far longer.

“A l'étage. Pour dormir.” Upstairs. To sleep. Pascale answers, soft-spoken as ever. Lorenzo nods, as Arthur flips his body around on the sofa so he’s no longer lying face down, but rather looking up towards the ceiling.

“Ah. Le décalage horaire?” Ah. Jet lag?

“Oui.”

Charles stays quiet. He knows full well his family are waiting for him to say something – maybe they’re not sure what, but then again, he isn’t either. Noa hasn’t spoken a single word to him. All of her attention has been directed towards his mum and her questions, or to his brothers and their playful teasing about how much she’s grown. That still doesn’t take away from the fact that he knows she’s doing it on purpose. Most of him doesn’t blame her, but there’s a small part in the back of his mind that feels almost…betrayed. It takes two to end a friendship, after all. Noa didn’t exactly attempt to salvage the wreck they’d made.

“Well I think that went pretty well.” Arthur speaks up first in French, staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his stomach. Charles looks over, trying to catch his eye. He must sense it, but his gaze remains turned away. Another beat of silence passes.

“She’s quieter.” Lorenzo says thoughtfully. He’s right too. It’s not just in the way that she doesn’t talk half as much as she used to, it’s something in her demeanour as well. There used to be a spark in Noa’s eye that Charles would look towards whenever he needed cheering up. Now when he searches for it, there’s layers upon layers shrouding the once happy memory. Like he’s peering through thick fog, trying to make out a landscape he’s long since forgotten.

“Je ne suis pas surpris.” I’m not surprised. Arthur muses. All eyes turn to him, Lorenzo frowning, Pascale already prepared to question what exactly he means by that. Charles thinks he knows. “Oh, come on. It’s obvious isn’t it?” the youngest of the Leclercs scoffs, sitting up from his relaxed position on the sofa. His eyes are dark, frustrated, perhaps even angry. “First he takes her chance at being offered a Formula 1 seat – with Ferrari, her dream team.” Arthur begins, jabbing a harsh finger in Charles’ direction. He winces, “Then her mother almost dies, and she has to give up her career just to be with her. She’s a Senna Borges. Racing is in her blood. And we all know how hard she worked, just to fall short at the final hurdle – not even through her own fault.” He takes a pause to breathe, eyes now blazing. Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale sit watching in some kind of fascinated horror. It’s rare to see Arthur so worked up. He’s always been the kind of person that can make light of any situation, no matter how grim. But there’s something about Noa and the cruel hand she’s been dealt in life lately that makes his blood boil.

“Now she’s finally made it to Formula 1, where she deserves to be, but she’s also stuck with the person who ruined that dream for her the first time around.” He goes on, turning now to Charles, “Look, I don’t care about what happened between you two. There’s nothing you can do to change it now. But Noa is like a sister to me, and as long as you both refuse to talk to each other, we’re never going to feel like a family to her again. Like we used to.” Arthur speaks, almost alarmingly softly, his jaw clenched hard, “For once just stop being so selfish and look at this from someone else’s perspective. Preferably hers. You know you owe it to her after –“

“Arthur!” Pascale’s voice cuts through the tense atmosphere like a knife, silencing her youngest son immediately, “Do not call your brother selfish. You don’t understand the full story – none of us do.”

That seems to bring him back to his senses. Everything falls silent, but also on the brink of chaos, teetering on a knife edge. Nobody except Lorenzo notices the faint tremor in Pascale’s hand, which he tries to quell by rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. Charles is sat, rigid back, white knuckles, in the arm chair, glaring at Arthur from across the room. Meanwhile the aforementioned blinks as if he’s just awakened from a trance.

"Je suis désolé." I’m sorry. He murmurs, “I don’t know what –“

“Maman’s right.” Charles cuts him off tersely, “You don’t know the full story. You don’t know the things I said to her that night, or the things she said to me…” he trails off, breathing shakily even at the memory of it, “But you’re also right. I took the opportunity of a lifetime from her. She has every right to be angry at me, every right to hate me. That’s why I’m trying to make this right – and believe me, Arthur, I am trying. It’s just…it’s hard.” Charles’ gaze drops to the ground, almost shamefully, “So much has changed.”

Guilt is the most overwhelming part of this whole mess. Even though much of the misfortune that Noa has endured in the past two years has been entirely unrelated to him, he still can’t help but feel partly responsible. Perhaps it was his actions, something at the time he considered to be a mercy, that began the snowball effect. Perhaps if he’d never accepted Ferrari’s call, even though he so desperately wanted it, everything would be as perfect as he remembers. There’s so much uncertainty it’s impossible to predict. But Charles knows, at least from his side of the story, ever since the moment Noa walked out of his life, it’s gradually been growing duller and duller and duller. In a sick sort of way, he half hopes it has been the same for her.

“You do know she could never hate you, right?” Arthur speaks up softly. Charles’ gaze lifts from the ground, eyebrows furrowing inquisitively, “Mon dieu you’re both so stubborn.” He laughs humourlessly, shaking his head, “Noa may act like she can’t even look at you right now, but I know her just as well as you do. Maybe even better now, if you can’t see it.” He arches an eyebrow, “She’s hurting, Charles. You know what she does when she’s hurting? She pushes the people she cares about the most away.”

Winter break, 2014, Charles thinks. Of course. How could he forget?

“I’m just saying,” Arthur goes on, “If you mess this up any more than you already have, then she will end up hating you. But I can see it. Right now, she doesn’t. Not even close.”

Later, Pascale says something to him of the same effect. Hurt can fester. There are only two ways that things can go from here, with them both being kept so close to each other for the first time in so long. Either it brings them closer together – they work through their differences, overcome the mountains that stand in their way, and emerge on the other side even stronger because of it. Or, they’ll push each other away.

“I know what I would do if I were you.” Pascale tells him solemnly, “But you two need to figure this out on your own.”

It’s easy to say that, Charles thinks, when you haven’t made the mistakes they’ve both made. It’s so easy to imagine himself explaining how he thought he’d be protecting her by not telling her Ferrari had approached him. In his mind, she’ll listen and understand, and everything will go back to the way it used to be. But every time he runs the words he might say to her through his mind, he draws a blank. What mere words can salvage the ruins of a near decade-long friendship? What words can do justice the longing he feels to have her back in his life, not just as a distant memory, a relative stranger, but as his best friend. And even if he could find the words, there’s no guarantee Noa will even listen to them. Despite everything, she seems set on keeping her distance. Maybe Charles doesn’t blame her. Or maybe he wishes she’d fight a little harder.

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[wild-karrde]

In Command - Part 14

Master List | Previous Part | Next Part

A/N: If you saw me just post this without a header, NO YOU DIDN'T. Can't lie, I've been gravitating towards writing this fic a lot more lately, so I HOPE YOU ENJOY because I've just been having a ball (sorry in advance for the angst). As always, thank you to the wonderful @teletraan-meets-jarvis for beta-reading for me!!!

Chapter Rating: T

Warnings: mention of injury, language, LOTSA ANGST

Word Count: 8.9k words

The transport from the capital was deafeningly silent aside from the hum of the engine and the occasional cough, sneeze, or snore from one of the handful of other passengers onboard. Since it was mostly empty, Senna had chosen to stretch out across an entire row of seats, leaving Rex to find a seat for himself. He opted for the row of seats directly across from her, hoping that was enough distance. 

“Please don’t ask this of me.”

She was leaning against the window with her arms crossed and eyes closed, clearly trying to sleep, but the pinch between her brows gave away the fact that she was still very much awake. Rex hated that he knew that. 

He was at least glad that the blaster wound on her abdomen didn’t seem to be making her terribly uncomfortable. 

At least not any more uncomfortable than I’ve probably already made her.

He’d always known it was a possibility that she’d say no to him, but he’d allowed his optimism to run unchecked, giving him unfounded confidence that she wouldn’t. Even now, his mind whispered to him that there was still a chance. 

She doesn’t think we can do both. Keep fighting and be together.  

He couldn’t deny that her logic was sound, but for once, he didn’t care about being logical. He’d spent all of his life worrying about risk and odds and whether something was a good idea or not. For once, he wanted to be a little reckless, to toss caution to the wind in favor of something he wanted. 

But she had said no. And he would respect that. No matter how much it twisted his heart. No matter how sure he was that she felt the same. She’d said as much. 

“I can’t love you and do my job.”

“Please don’t ask this of me.”

The implication in that statement was clear; she was trying to do what she thought was right. Her reasoning and her sense of duty had gotten her this far, and he understood her hesitancy, even if he hated it. He was a threat in her mind, a threat to her place in the rebellion, a threat to the only stability she’d known since the end of the war. And he’d never dream of taking that from her, but he also understood he couldn’t account for every variable. He had wanted to tell her that leadership wouldn’t care if they were together, but that wasn’t a guarantee he could make. He wanted to argue more that they deserved this, that they could make this work, but could they? Was she right?

Don’t we deserve this? 

His own words and arguments echoed in his mind. He’d lashed out, and she’d retaliated. He had to at least credit her with being firm in her stance while not taking any cheap shots, despite the emotional toll the conversation had clearly taken. Rex knew he’d taken a swipe at her with the remark about attachments, but he’d been hurting, and the way she’d squared her shoulders, as if she knew it was coming had only made it feel worse. She knew him as much as he knew her. In fact, he was almost certain she knew him better than any of his brothers ever had. Sure, Cody had learned to read Rex’s mannerisms and Fives could see when he was troubled, but Senna knew his heart in ways no one else had. 

His eyes drifted over to her again as she shifted in her seat, clearly trying to will sleep to take her through sheer stubbornness, and he fought the urge to smile at her. She sniffled quietly, rubbing at her face before readjusting and crossing her ankles over one another, the toes of her boots dangling in the aisle. She scratched at the bacta patch under her shirt. He wanted to go and cover her with his jacket, to let her lean on his shoulder instead of the cold, hard metal of the window frame. 

But she’d said no. And before he’d loved her, he’d respected her, and that wasn’t going to change now. Part of that respect included accepting her decision, even if he thought she was wrong. Even if he didn’t believe her. Even if he thought there were hundreds of ways they could make it work. 

She’d said no. And that would be that. It had to be.

The hours dragged on, and it felt as though the aisle between them widened with every passing second, pushing them further and further apart. Rex filled his time checking the news holos on his datapad, trying to distract himself from the woman sitting across from him. He was slightly relieved that the incident in the market had been officially chalked up to an altercation with a desperate thief gone awry. A rough sketch of Senna’s mask was attached to the bulletin, along with a vague description. Rex chuckled to himself as he read it. 

Force sensitive individual, likely a Jedi, so treat with extreme caution. Likely armed. Slightly less than two meters in height, estimated weight of 90 kg. Human or humanoid, thought to be male.Injured by blaster shot to the chest/abdomen. Likely accompanied by an accomplice, although no physical description is available. 

Of course they had to make her a man. Couldn’t have Fisk’s fragile ego damaged by someone smaller than him and female. Also, ‘thief’ sounds better than ‘rebel spy with dirt on an officer’. At least they didn’t get a clear look at me, I suppose.

He had no doubt Fisk had doctored his account of what had happened, but he also wasn’t certain if that made him more or less dangerous. The fact that they’d included her Force sensitivity made him nervous. It was clear they were painting her as a desperate fugitive in the hopes that the public would turn her in without hesitation. 

They know a Jedi is here. A high-value target. That makes things more complicated for us. 

When the transport finally groaned to a stop at their home port, Senna popped out of her seat immediately, slinging her rucksack and one of the other bags across her back and striding down the steps without so much as a glance at Rex. He watched her go before heaving a sigh, grabbing the remaining bag and trailing behind her. 

The walk back to their dwelling was quick, and when they arrived, Senna bounded up the stairs wordlessly. 

“Sen.” Rex’s voice sounded rough from hours of no use. 

She paused at the top of the stairs, looking down at him from under her hood. He couldn’t make out her expression in the dark, so he charged forward with what he wanted to say. 

“I’ll leave Organa a message that we made it back. We can talk about next steps in the morning.” 

She bobbed her head in acknowledgement, seemingly waiting to see if he’d say anything else. 

There’s so much more, but where to even begin? 

She didn’t give him another moment to think, turning on her heel and disappearing into her bedroom. The door clicked shut behind her. 

Rex stood at the bottom of the stairs for a few more moments, rubbing his thumb along a scratch in the banister’s wood. He didn’t think she was angry with him, but he almost wished she was. It’d make the silence more bearable. After a few moments, he heaved another heavy sigh before trudging to his room. 

Pushing the door open, he dropped his bag on the floor to be dealt with in the morning, kicking his boots into the corner. His back was sore from the uncomfortable transport seat, and it felt as though exhaustion had practically seeped into the places between his muscles, weighing him down further. His bed, albeit empty, had never looked so inviting. 

As he bent down to undo the blaster holster on his thigh, he noted a red blip of light out of the corner of his eye. He turned. 

The commlink on his nightstand was blinking. 

Rex’s breath hitched in his throat as his blood roared in his ears. 

Ahsoka. 

The holster on his hip and his fatigue forgotten, he charged across the bedroom, sitting heavily on the bed and snatching the commlink off of the nightstand. His hands shook as he read the display. The message was dated two days before. 

Just checking in. Been a while. Call when you have time. Nothing urgent. - Snips

She’s alive.

Rex let out a shuddering breath that was almost a sob, cradling his head in his hands. He hadn’t realized until this very moment how worried he’d been for her, how much he’d tried to push it to the back of his mind. But she’d used the codename as an indicator, just like he’d taught her, and that meant that she was fine, that this really was just her checking in. If she’d signed it with her real name, it would seem innocuous to anyone with her, but he’d have known she was in trouble, and he wasn’t sure if he could have handled that at the moment. 

She’s alright. 

He chuckled quietly to himself as relief flooded through him, his thumbs already typing out a response. 

It has been a while. You awake? Not sure what time it is where you are. Can talk now. - Fulcrum

When Ahsoka had left, she’d given him this frequency, one that she and Anakin and a few others had used during the war. She was certain no one else had it, and the ones that did likely weren’t using it anymore. So far, it seemed she was right, but even so, they’d taken precautions, using codenames chosen to hide their identities. Only a few people had known Ahsoka as Snips, a nickname given to her by Anakin, and Rex had just adopted the codename from the frequency, as much as Ahsoka had pushed for more whimsical options. 

The commlink in his hand vibrated almost immediately, and he nearly dropped it in his haste to answer the incoming call. Finally, he managed to find the correct button to open the link.

“F-Fulcrum here,” he stuttered out, holding his breath for her response. 

“Hey Fulcrum. Snips here.” Her voice felt like a warm hug, and Rex had to dig his teeth into his lip to keep from crying. He’d been holding himself together so tightly, but something about hearing the young Togruta he considered to be his little sister on the other end of the link nearly broke him. 

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he croaked. 

“You too, Rex,” she replied, dropping the codename. 

“None of that now,” he chided, ignoring the pull of the familiar in his chest. As much as he wanted to talk with her as if everything was fine, as if it was all normal, he couldn’t risk it. “Don’t know who could be listening.” 

“You’re such a stickler for protocol,” she teased. That was familiar too, but for different reasons. 

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he joked, trying not to think of Senna.

“You sound tired,” she noted. “You alright?” 

Hell no, but I’m better knowing you’re safe.

“Had better days.” 

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“This a social call?” 

“Yeah. Kind of. Missed you.” 

He ran his hand through his hair. This was the first time he’d heard from her in almost a year, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend it regaling her with details of his failed romantic endeavors. “You could always come back. Harder to miss me that way,” he joked. 

She sighed. “Not quite there yet. I’m sorry.”

His chest tightened. “S’alright. I understand. I know you need time.” He flexed his fingers. “Can I at least ask where you are?” 

“Raada for now,” she answered. “We’ll see if this one sticks. It’s quiet here.” 

“Safe?”

“Am I ever?” 

“Not putting my mind at ease much, Snips.”

He could practically hear her smiling. “I’ve never been good at that either, if we’re both honest.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

“So, can you tell me what you’re up to these days?” she asked. 

Rex laid back on his bed, his eyes drifting to the ceiling, picturing Senna in her bed upstairs. “I’m on a mission. Been on it for a while. Outer Rim, but I don’t want to say more than that.”

“Got it. You alone?”

“Nope.” 

“I sense there’s something you’re not telling me.”

He sighed. “Sense that, do you?” 

“Oh come on, Fulcrum. We’ve known each other long enough. I can tell when you’re being purposefully vague.” 

“I don’t think the words purposefully vague have ever been used to describe me before,” he dodged. 

“Then I’ll put it more bluntly. You’re a terrible liar, Rex.”

“Snips-”

“So who is it?” she asked, ignoring his scolding tone. 

He scrubbed his hand over his face, debating as to whether Senna would want Ahsoka to at least know she was alive. He replayed the memory of Empire Day, the relief in her eyes when he told her Ahsoka had escaped. That moment clarified it for him, confirmed what he suspected she’d want. He hoped she’d forgive him later for not waking her, but he selfishly wanted this moment with Ahsoka for himself. Hopefully, there’d be time for the two of them to reconnect later. 

She’d want her to know though. Just gotta be careful.

“She’s someone you know,” he started. “And it isn’t like that.”

“We’ll debate that later. How do I know her?”

Rex chewed the inside of his cheek as he chose his words carefully. He really wanted to believe this frequency was completely secure, but he couldn’t be too careful.  Especially not with Ahsoka and Senna’s lives at stake. 

“Do you remember a technical specialist your other brother knew? One with long brown hair and blue eyes? That you had to frequently visit in garages and haul out from underneath ships or speeders?”

The way Ahsoka lightly gasped on the other end of the line made it clear that she realized who he was referring to. She was silent for a moment. “Are her jokes still terrible?” Her voice was pitched slightly differently, caught somewhere between relief and excitement.

“The worst,” Rex confirmed, his own voice suddenly tighter. He wiped at the tears blurring his vision. “As is her caf. She makes some pretty good noodles though.” 

“All she eats is noodles.”

“She’s branched out a bit.” 

Ahsoka chuckled. “So you fell in love with her? Is that what I’m understanding?” 

Rex exhaled sharply. Ahsoka was one of the few people he still had from before, the closest thing he had to family outside of his brothers. And honestly, he wanted to talk about it with her. “Something like that,” he said softly. 

He could hear her hesitation on the other end of the link. “But it didn’t work out?”

“It didn’t,” he confirmed. “Just not the right time.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was sincere. 

“Me too, kid,” he sighed. “Me too.” 

—

Senna swore through clenched teeth as she pulled the used bandage away from her abdomen. It had been three rotations since they’d returned from the capital city, and ever since they’d gotten back, Rex had spent most of his time avoiding her. If she was honest, she hadn’t made any effort to change that. She didn’t feel like she had any right to. 

Unfortunately, that meant she had to change the dressings on her wound herself, a daily task that only seemed to annoy her further. The rate at which she was healing was far too slow for her liking. Before the end of the war, she could have gone down to a medbay and gotten a stronger salve or even hopped into a bacta tank for a quick soak, and her blaster wound would likely have healed within a few rotations. Now, she could see the edges of her skin around the wound just beginning to heal with some of the angry redness receding. It still smarted to all hell, and she was tired of the lingering throb. Her heart was aching enough as it was. 

She missed Rex. He spent most days out doing reconnaissance or writing reports in his room on his datapad. Neither of them had made any extra effort to be around each other. A heaviness had fallen over the dwelling, and the distance between them had never felt greater. It didn’t help that Rex had reported what they’d learned about Ilum to Senator Organa, and no one seemed to be taking it seriously. Or at least, in her opinion, not seriously enough. 

Especially not after everything we went through to get that information. 

Overall, the leadership, whoever they were, had felt that the concept of harvesting an entire world’s worth of kyber was “far-fetched” and “unlikely to actually occur”. In their eyes, the Emperor’s concerns lied elsewhere, particularly in quashing small uprisings that were popping up across the mid rim, and with the rebellion’s limited resources, they had to focus on more “real” threats which had only frustrated her more. 

As if the Empire hasn’t already shown it can subdue dissidents while causing twelve other problems at the same time. The Emperor won’t let a few small distractions deter him from getting what he wants. And if he gets a superweapon in his arsenal, one that can bring the entire galaxy to its knees, then we’ve already lost. How can they not see that?

It didn’t help that their mission also hung in the balance. Organa’s response the day after they’d returned had conveyed thinly-veiled disappointment and a desire to re-evaluate whether their presence was still useful on Lothal, especially since the Empire now knew there was a Force user on the planet. 

So, they waited. 

The two of them still normally sat together for one meal a day as if the refusal to acknowledge a line had been crossed would somehow salvage things, but they normally ate in silence. There was occasionally idle chatter that they’d try and force before Senna would slink off to the shed or up to her office while Rex would return to his room. Since Organa had placed them in a holding pattern while their operation was reviewed, there wasn’t much else to do. The silence appeared to indicate they would likely be moved from Lothal before terribly long as the mission had seemingly run its course, and no other promising intelligence leads had materialized. 

Senna wasn’t sure if that’s what she hoped for or not, but what she was certain of was that she couldn’t stand being in this close of a proximity to Rex in their current state. It was torture. 

Maybe it’d be better to be done. To start over somewhere else. Alone. 

She hoped there’d be another mission for her, although she worried that their debacle in the capital city would make the leadership hesitant to reassign her anywhere new. 

It wasn’t our fault. It was the right call. The opportunity was too good to pass up, even with the outcome. 

Whatever happened next, she was certain Rex wouldn’t want to be with her, and she couldn’t blame him. The first night they’d returned, she’d heard him speaking quietly to someone in his room when she’d come down for a glass of water, and she’d assumed it was Organa. 

Likely asking to not be placed with me. Or perhaps telling them that I was the one that pushed for the meet with Fisk. That it was my mistake.

She’d felt a flash of shame at that thought. Even with how distant he was right now, Rex would never do that to her, never throw her to the wolves. He was too good of a leader for that. No, if anything, he’d take the blame for the whole thing. 

Because that’s just how he is. 

Still, she’d briefly considered pressing an ear to the door, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to hear what he was saying, no matter who he was talking to. She regretted that thought too, adding it to the long list of regrets she had, chief among them being how badly she’d hurt him. She’d never wanted to do that.

You should have stopped it from the beginning. 

But even now, she wasn’t certain where that beginning was. They’d come together so easily, especially after Empire Day. When she’d revealed her secret to him, he’d immediately trusted her, even knowing she’d been lying to him for weeks. He had rewarded her trust with the same level of honesty. She didn’t doubt that he meant it when he said he hadn’t told anyone else about Ahsoka, and she didn’t take his confidence in that moment lightly. And then they’d just been them. It had all been so easy, felt so natural. And then she’d let it go too far. 

Still, she thought about his words often. 

“We choose to do this, put our lives on the line and stand up for what’s right, and you think we don’t deserve happiness because of that? If anything, I’d say we’re more deserving of it.”

What if he’s right? 

How could she and Rex possibly work though? What, were they going to be the star-crossed lovers of the rebellion? She scoffed out loud at the thought.

Ridiculous. 

There was a time and a place for love stories, and it wasn’t in the middle of a war. That only happened in those ridiculous romance novels her friends had traded as teenagers in the temple, giggling to one another and swooning over the heroes and their love interests. 

It feels like I’ve been in a war most of my adult life. 

In reality, the war had only lasted three years, but Order 66 felt like a lifetime ago, and to some degree, it had been. The current version of herself differed so drastically from who she’d been as a Jedi, it was almost as if she had died that day. She had never planned to have someone in her life romantically as a Jedi, and that had been fine then. Sure, she’d had crushes on people at the temple, but they’d been nothing but silly infatuations that she’d been able to brush aside. Her first kiss had been with a friend as teenagers, just to see what all the fuss was about. Her heart had fluttered slightly when their lips had met, but the two of them had fallen into a fit of giggles almost immediately, resting their foreheads together. Ultimately, they had both agreed that it had been silly, but she still held the memory close.

She’s probably dead now too, Senna thought. Just like everyone else we knew. I just hope it wasn’t Bly that did it.

She had looked for a partner after Order 66 in all of the wrong ways. Then, her pursuits had been for someone to make her feel whole again, to fill the gaping void in her heart that grief had torn. But that had always been destined to fail, and ultimately, she gave up when she realized that. 

And then she’d met Rex, and now everything was tilted on its axis and the ground beneath her feet felt unsteady. She’d wanted to remain broken, thinking it fueled her, but he had flooded between the cracks in her soul, helping her pull herself back together. Rex had carefully guided her away from her grief and pushed her forward on her own two feet. It wasn’t that he completed her; he treated her as though she was already whole, as marred by her past as she was. He didn’t view her imperfections as something to be smoothed over, but rather, something to be embraced and celebrated. 

Because that’s what you do when you love someone. It just took you this long to realize that.

And then you told him no. 

Senna sighed, pressing the new bacta patch over her wound and wincing slightly. She still believed it was the best way to keep Rex safe, and she couldn’t have his life on her conscience. He had to know she’d killed some of his brothers in her escape, maybe some he’d even known. She couldn’t be responsible for his death, even indirectly. She wouldn’t survive that. 

Her eyes drifted to the carved wooden box still sitting on her desk. It had collected dust in the last few weeks, which she carefully brushed off. The dust particulates danced in the waning sunlight trickling in through the room’s window. 

I felt it that day. Just for a moment. 

Senna studied her fingers and hand, the hand that she’d reached out towards Fisk, pushing his arm skyward when he’d raised his weapon. It had been so brief, but in that moment, the familiar warmth of the Force had been there, right when she needed it. She hadn’t been practicing much with everything that had been happening with her and Rex, but even when she’d tried in the shed, her connection had almost felt like a sputter, stuttering and uneven like there was interference or static on the line. But in that moment in the market, she’d felt the Force around her as if the barriers she had put in place didn’t exist, and she’d reached out reflexively and pushed. It had been small, but it hadn’t been nothing. She flexed her fingers as she glanced back at the box. Slowly, she reached out, tracing the carvings on the lid before allowing her fingers to undo the latch and flip the lid open for the first time in a year. 

Maybe it’s time.

The sunlight glinted off of the engraved hilt of her lightsaber, causing her breath to catch in her throat. She’d spent hours etching the hilt with circuit board-like traces and filigree, and her fingers ran along the grooves lightly, the metal cool against her fingertips. She was suddenly overcome with the urge to grasp the weapon, to feel its familiar weight in her hand once more. She thought of the first time she’d ignited it, how she’d smiled triumphantly as the ice blue blade had illuminated the space around her. It had felt right, natural, like every atom in the universe had aligned for this moment to happen.  

Like when you’re with Rex. 

She shook her head to clear the thought, ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes. Hesitantly, she allowed her fingers to creep around the hilt, the curve of its circumference fitting perfectly against her palm. As she lifted it out of the box, the memory of the last time she’d held it flooded her mind. 

Kashyyyk. Screams. Death. Deflected blaster bolts burning through plastoid into flesh. 

The smells from her nightmare filled her nostrils, and the way she’d pleaded with the clones, her friends, to stop shooting echoed in her ears. She’d tried to send as many blaster bolts away from them as she could before realizing it was a lost cause. She remembered the screams as she sent a few of the blasts back to their origins, burning through the clones’ armor as she turned and ran. Her pulse quickened and her breathing became more strained as she quickly dropped her lightsaber and pulled her hand away, snapping the box closed. 

Not yet.

Senna doubled over, her elbows digging into her knees as she hid her face in her hands. 

I haven’t felt this lost in a year. 

Her datapad pinged with an incoming message. She glanced at the screen, noting the familiar frequency. Sighing, she picked it up, her eyes flicking over the words on the screen.  

Hope the honeymoon went well! Having a dinner party at our place tomorrow night. Would love to hear all about it then if you can make it! - Zea

She sighed, tapping out a response as she steeled herself for the trek downstairs. 

—

Rex knew he spent too much time shut away in his room, but it was one of the few places that didn’t seem littered with evidence of Senna. Her used caf mug on the counter in the kitchen, the lingering smell of sandalwood on the couch, everything seemed to remind him of her and how he’d managed to kriff everything up. He knew he should go and talk to her, but she seemed eager to avoid him, and the last thing he wanted to do was push her further away. Guilt swirled within him, amplified by the fact that he still hadn’t told her that Ahsoka had contacted him. He knew she deserved to know, but at this point, he didn’t know how to tell her without it seeming like another betrayal. His confidence in how she’d respond to him was shaken from what had happened in the capital. 

So instead, he stayed in his room, waiting to be told what the next move was. 

To distract himself, he’d started searching for his brothers to see if any surviving clones may still be out there. In the depths of his mind, he wondered if he was trying to make himself feel less lonely, to fill the place that he had thought Senna might fit. But this had always been a part of the plan. Rex had just hoped that she might join him in the endeavor. While he hadn’t discovered anything concrete yet, he’d found mentions of a clone with a cybernetic eye had been spotted in the outer rim, a record of a captain had been arrested on Ryloth, a forum post swearing they’d seen a clone with a curving facial scar had been seen sneaking onto a transport off of Coruscant. They were all just starting points, bread crumbs to be gathered and pieced together until he had a solid lead to follow. With millions of brothers out there that shared similar scars or injuries, it was impossible to say for sure that one of them was Wolffe or Cody or any of the others he was close with. But even if he hadn’t known them during the war, they were still a brother, still worth tracking down. He poured all of himself into that work, trying not to think of the woman upstairs. 

A knock at his door made him jump, the crack of knuckles against wood sounding incredibly loud in the silence. “Come in,” he grunted. 

Senna quietly stepped into the room, the door shutting softly behind her. Rex kept his eyes down, silently hoping that her intrusion wouldn’t leave any evidence behind. The pillow she’d slept on was just finally starting to stop smelling like her. He’d tossed it in the corner, waiting for the scent to dissipate before he would use it again. Even now, he could feel her seeping into the room around him, embedding herself there like a thorn in a wound. He tried to keep his anguish from turning to annoyance. 

I’m leaving her alone. I’m trying to do this her way. Isn’t that what she wants? 

Senna stood there silently for a few seconds, finally speaking once she realized he wasn’t going to look at her. “Zea reached out.”

“Oh yeah? What does she want?” His voice was gruffer than he intended, but he somewhat hoped it would keep the interaction brief.

He could hear her picking at her fingernails. 

Why is she nervous? 

“They’ve invited us to a dinner party at their place tomorrow night. There’ll apparently be some Imperial officials there as well, but a small gathering overall. I think we should go.”

He finally raised his eyes to look at her. “Do you know which officials?”

Senna didn’t meet his gaze, shrugging. “She didn’t say. Just some people Brak works with.”

“So there’s a possibility Fisk will be there.” 

Her eyes finally met his, and there was a bit of anger there. 

“I suppose. But Brak hates him, so not very likely.” 

“And you still think going is a good idea?” 

“Are you coming with me or not?” Her tone was growing progressively more heated. 

“Of course I’d go with you.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

They stared at each other for a moment, and he could see she was silently fuming. Finally, she ran her fingers through her hair, temporarily taming the flyaways that always seemed to be hanging in her face. “Look, you and I both know that we’re about to get pulled. I don’t have to have military experience to have that worked out. So why not try and see if we can glean anything else before that happens? Fisk might be there, but so will other Imperials that might have important information. At a minimum, maybe we can gauge how panicked they are about bumping into me in the capital. Maybe if it’s not that bad, we can use that to argue against getting yanked out of here.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked slowly. “Even after everything that… that happened?”

Her expression softened. “Of course, Rex. I think we can still do good here.” 

His heart twisted in his chest. He wanted to ask more questions, to interrogate her as to why she wanted to stay here with him when it seemed they were both just torturing one another. Instead, he merely conceded. 

“Alright. We’ll go.”

She gave him a small smile. “Ok. Ok. I’ll find something to wear.” She turned, pushing his door back open. 

Before he could stop himself, her name fell from his lips. “Senna.”

She looked back, meeting his eyes. “Yes?”

The words caught in his throat as their eyes met. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. I’m sorry. Please let’s go back to the way things were. I love you. I understand why you think we can’t, but you’re wrong. I’m sorry. His mind raced as he tried to come up with something, but when he couldn’t, he closed his mouth and just looked at her. “Never mind.”

Quietly, Senna turned and exited the room, letting the door shut behind her.

—

Senna slipped her arm through Rex’s as they stepped out into the cool night air the following evening. His arm felt tense under her fingertips, but she wasn’t certain that she wasn’t imagining it. 

“Ready?”

“Yes.” His gaze was fixed straight forward. 

It wasn’t going to be the same. And you were silly to expect otherwise. 

“Alright then. Let’s get it done,” she murmured. 

Senna could already hear laughter coming from Zea and Brak’s dwelling as they made their way over. The door was open and Zea greeted them as they made their way up the front steps. Her face was gracious as always, but a tension lurked behind her eyes. Senna released Rex’s arm and nodded at him to go in without her, pulling Zea aside.

“Everything alright?” she whispered. “You seem upset about something.” 

Zea nodded hurriedly, her welcoming smile slipping back into place to hide the strain. “Yes, yes. It’s just…Brak was inviting some of his colleagues over, and apparently Commander Fisk was within earshot, and he essentially invited himself as well, so he’s here, and I’m just struggling with that. He’s been absolutely awful since he returned from his conference, and it’s made life difficult for Brak. He was apparently involved in the incident that took place there.”

Senna had known it was possible he’d be here, and yet, she still couldn’t keep the blood from pounding in her ears at the confirmation that he was. She could feel Rex’s eyes on her, gauging her reaction. Willing her face to conform to some sort of concerned expression, she gripped Zea’s arm gently in what she hoped came across as a comforting gesture. “How awful. Is he alright?”

Zea placed her hand over Senna’s, giving it a grateful squeeze. “He’s fairly banged up, but more than that, he’s just been in a very foul mood, and it’s making everything a bit tense. Most of the people here report to him, so everyone’s walking on eggshells.”

Senna nodded, smiling tightly. “It’ll be alright. Let’s not let one person ruin this evening for you.”

Having an ally seemed to lighten Zea’s mood. “Of course, you’re right.” She slipped her hand around Senna’s elbow, pulling her into the house. “Now, I want to hear all about your honeymoon.”

—

“…and that was the night the aurora was at its peak, so we were fortunate enough to find a spot out among the mountains to make camp. We just stayed up all night watching it from our campsite.”

Rex’s hand was clasped in Senna’s on the tabletop as she regaled the party goers with tales of their recent “honeymoon”. He’d allowed her to take the lead again in the conversation, content to add any commentary in when she directed a question at him. He never failed to be amazed at her storytelling abilities and how quickly she was able to weave details together into a believable account. As he surveyed the rest of the table, he caught Commander Fisk staring at them out of the corner of his eye. Fisk had kept his distance for most of the night, merely shooting menacing looks at Senna when he thought no one was looking. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten over her rejecting him. He was sporting a black eye from his altercation with Senna in the market that was on the mend, and he walked with a bit of a limp, which Rex found incredibly satisfying. He couldn’t help but be proud of the damage she’d done to the Imperial. 

She really landed a few on him. 

Turning his gaze away from the commander, he smirked into his whiskey as he sipped from his glass.

“It sounds like it was an incredible adventure,” said one of the other women at the table. She was an Imperial officer that Rex and Senna had vetted before but ultimately decided wasn’t worth pressing for information.

“It was,” Senna smiled, leaning against Rex’s shoulder. “The best we could have asked for, all things considered.”

Rex heard a grunt from Fisk’s direction and shot him a look that was enough to make the other man avert his eyes.

“And what of your week, Commander?” Brak asked, turning the conversation towards his superior. Rex admired his attempt to engage the man in conversation, despite his contempt for him. “How was the conference?”

Fisk straightened in his chair, attempting to exude some semblance of dignity. “Productive. We were able to discuss a great many topics and proposals that I believe will aid us in our future endeavors.”

“And the large project?” Brak prompted.

Fisk’s eyes darted nervously around the table, settling on Rex and Senna. “I hardly think the company here is the appropriate audience for such discussions.” It made sense for him to focus on them since they were the only ones at this party that were not actively working for the Empire, but it still unsettled Rex. 

Brak laughed tensely. “Apologies, Commander. We’d brought up the project before, and Valla found it fascinating. I’ve heard it discussed openly before, so I didn’t think it would be an issue. My mistake.” He waved his hands in what was likely supposed to be an appeasing motion, but it came across as more condescending than deferential. 

Fisk ignored him, turning to brazenly stare at Senna. Rex couldn’t tell what the commander was thinking, but he knew he didn’t like it. It was as if something had clicked in the man’s brain, and a warning alarm was starting to quietly sound in the back of Rex’s mind. 

“I didn’t know you were so interested in engineering, Valla,” Fisk stated flatly, his eyes never leaving her. 

If Senna noticed that Fisk was suddenly suspicious of something, she didn’t openly show it, sipping from her glass of wine before answering him.“Oh Wen, you know I love talking technical things. I’m just not always good at it, remember?” She laughed lightly, but Fisk’s eyes continued to bore into her.

“And what of the security incident that happened while you were there?” Zea asked, missing the tension between Senna and Fisk as she continued to steer the conversation.

“Oh, it was hardly as large as public rumors would lead you to believe. We managed to shoot one of the assailants and wound them significantly, but unfortunately, they are still at large for now.”

“Should we be worried?” asked one of the other women at the table. “It seems concerning that there would be an organized rebel cell here on Lothal.”

“Not at all,” Fisk said firmly. “We believe that there were only two of them and that they acted alone. Hardly what I’d classify as a rebel cell.” His voice dripped with condescension. “We’re confident that we’ll apprehend them soon enough, and that will put an end to that.”

Brak smiled and gestured at Senna. “See, you two managed to miss all the fun while you were out on your honeymoon. This has been the talk of the town the last few days.”

Senna laughed. “It would seem that way.”

“How long were you two gone for?” Fisk asked, the question setting off even more alarms in the back of Rex’s brain.

“Oh, around a week. We just got back a few rotations ago.”

“Exactly how many rotations ago?” Fisk asked, and the tension at the table grew.

“Alright, Wen, we don’t need to interrogate them about their honeymoon now, do we?” One of the other officers joked, sloshing his drink in his glass. Fisk shot him a withering look, but remained silent after that. 

The warning bells in the back of Rex’s mind screamed, no matter how much he tried to reason with himself. 

He has no reason to think it’s us. The timeline matches up, but that’s it. He’s just looking for justification to pin something on Senna since she rejected him. 

But isn’t that just as dangerous?  

He made a mental note to reach out to Organa as soon as they returned home. As much as it made his heart ache, if Fisk was going to start sniffing around, it was time to leave Lothal. 

Even if it meant he and Senna had to go their separate ways. 

Following dinner, the party moved to the dwelling’s living space as the couples and officers continued to chat while sipping on their various drinks. Rex slipped his arm around Senna’s waist and kept himself between her and Fisk as much as possible to avoid confrontation. She didn’t pull away, which both relieved him, but also, made his heart clench. He understood this was likely going to be their last night together on Lothal, and that maybe, they’d never see each other again. But if Fisk had his way, Senna would surely suffer, regardless of if he was able to prove that she was the Jedi from the market or not. That was an alternative Rex couldn’t stomach. The warning bells were still ringing insistently in the back of his mind as a plan took shape.

I’ll contact Organa and request an immediate evac. Worst case, it takes a rotation to hear back. More likely it’ll be a few hours since it’ll be flagged as urgent. Unless he has a pick-up in-system, which is doubtful, it’s going to take a few rotations for someone to get out here. There’s always the emergency beacon, but there’s no guarantee they’re any closer. And if they’re on a mission–

His thoughts were interrupted as Senna slipped from his grasp, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. He felt the bandages on her abdomen as she moved, just barely perceptible against her skin under the fabric. She’d seemingly been moving with significantly less difficulty the last day or so. Rex of course knew that it would take a while to fully heal due to their limited medical supplies, but he was at least glad to see that she wasn’t in as much pain. He knew she’d gotten lucky with the place the bolt had hit her, and he was grateful for at least that much.

“I think I’m going to go refresh my drink,” she was saying, her blue eyes meeting his. He swallowed hard, trying not to drown in them. “Anything for you, Lon?” 

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

She smiled disarmingly and moved away towards the kitchen where Zea had laid out all of the open bottles of libations for their guests. Rex watched her go, noting Wen followed her shortly after. He felt his entire body tense, his hands curling into fists. 

Keep calm. She’s not in there alone. He won’t try anything. 

He felt fire burn in his stomach as he tried to pay attention to the conversation going on around him, but the alarms in the back of his mind were beginning to crescendo.

—

Senna uncorked a bottle of wine she’d been drinking from throughout the evening and began to fill her glass when she felt a hand slip around her waist. She immediately knew it wasn’t Rex, and her entire body stiffened as Fisk quietly spoke in her ear.

“Well, it sounds like you all had a lovely time on your trip.”

She steadied her breathing as she looked around the small room. There were a few other people in the kitchen chatting with each other, but no one had seemed to notice Wen’s proximity to her. She moistened her lips, turning to look him in the eye. “Yes, it was wonderful. A much needed trip for both of us, I would say.” Her smile was forced, but she frankly didn’t feel like smoothing the edges for him this time. 

His fingers dug into her hip, and she bit back the panic rising in her throat. Names were being called from the living space, and suddenly, the people in the kitchen were filing out, clearly still unaware of the tense conversation occurring in the corner. As the last couple exited the kitchen, laughing with one another, Senna felt a cold sweat break out across the back of her neck. 

I’m on my own. 

The prospect was terrifying. She hadn’t missed the way the Imperial had begun probing at dinner, clearly suddenly suspicious of her and Rex. 

He has nothing. He’s grasping at straws.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face Fisk, brushing his arm away as she did so. She smiled sweetly at him, but anger licked up her spine. They were not on equal footing, and this time, Senna was determined to not let him think he had the upper hand. The fact that she didn’t immediately cower only seemed to infuriate the Imperial more. He stepped closer to her. Senna didn’t flinch.

“I could tell him, you know,” he practically spat under his breath. 

“Tell him what, Wen? That you and I had dinner a few times and that you misunderstood my intentions? Good luck with that,” Senna replied derisively. She tried to brush past him, but he pressed a hand against her abdomen, pushing her backwards and pinning her against the beverage table. The bottles on the table rattled slightly from her impact. Senna sucked in her breath at the sudden pressure on her healing injury, and she saw a look of confusion cross his face as he felt the bacta patch under her shirt.

Fuck.

He leaned forward, his mouth inches from her ear. “Hurt yourself, Valla?”

Senna’s voice was low and venomous even though she was still keeping her smile in place in case she was being watched. “I understand you may be unfamiliar with how female anatomy functions Commander, but if you must know, I’m menstruating. I experience rather painful cramps, and often have to wear a heat patch to get some relief.” She gripped his wrist tightly. “Perhaps in the future, you’ll opt to keep your hands to yourself and mind your own business.” 

Senna tried to remove his hand, but Fisk pushed harder against the bacta patch. She bit the inside of her cheek as his thumb dug into the wound, trying to keep her face from twisting in pain. Fisk smirked triumphantly. 

“Funny, the patch doesn’t feel very warm to me.”

“Is there a problem here?” Rex asked from behind them, placing his hand on Wen’s shoulder. His voice was quiet, but the threat was apparent.

“Oh no problem at all, Lon,” Fisk glowered. “Just telling your wife how lovely she looks this evening.” He released the pressure on her waist and Senna did everything in her power to not gasp at the sudden relief, staring him down as he stepped back from her.

“Valla, I think it’s time to go,” Rex said firmly. “I’ve got a lot of work to get to in the morning.”

“Oh I’ll bet you do,” Fisk muttered under his breath. 

Senna saw the anger flare in Rex’s eyes, and before she could do anything to stop him, Rex swiftly had Fisk pinned against the wall by his collar, his feet lifting off the floor a few centimeters. The Imperial’s eyes bulged as he grabbed at Rex’s wrists in panic. Senna suddenly had the wild urge to laugh as she watched the fear in his gaze, the sudden feeling of helplessness at the unexpected. It was so beautifully poetic to watch him feel a fraction of what he’d put her through, even if panic was coursing through her. 

“Quiet, wouldn’t want to upset the other people enjoying themselves,” Rex rasped. “Now, I’m going to tell you this one time, so listen well, Commander. You won’t get a second chance. Do you understand?”

Fisk squeaked out an affirmative, nodding his head in confirmation.

“Good. You are to stay away from my wife. I’ve known plenty of men like you in my life, and they don’t survive long when I’m around, so unless you want your Imperial career to be vastly shorter than it already promises to be, you’ll keep your distance and never speak to her again. Have I made myself clear?”

Fisk nodded again.

“Excellent.” Rex released him and he dropped to the floor, barely keeping his feet under him. The commander glared at Rex as he straightened his jacket and fiddled with his cuffs as he made his way towards the kitchen’s doorway. He paused there, glancing back at them. Senna felt Rex step closer to her, his hand slipping around her waist protectively. She leaned into him. Fisk’s lip curled into a sneer.

“You know, Valla is lucky to have such a doting husband. Too bad they can’t clone you.” 

Rex’s fingertips dug into Senna’s side. “Yeah. A shame,” he replied evenly. 

Fisk chuckled quietly, his eyes flicking between the two of them before he slipped back into the living room. 

Rex’s warm hands gently turned Senna to face him. As the adrenaline wore off, she felt her legs suddenly start to tremble beneath her, and she leaned heavily on the table next to them. Rex gripped her upper arm, his other hand still holding onto her waist. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“We should go,” she said quietly. “He felt the patch.” She couldn’t meet Rex’s eyes. “I tried to lie. Some bantha shit about it being a heating pad, but I don’t think he bought it. He knows.” 

This is it. The end. We’re done. 

“Sen–”

“Not here,” she hissed. Finally, she glanced up and saw the hurt in his eyes. 

He knows it too. 

“We have to go,” she repeated, swallowing the lump in her throat. “We have to go now.” 

He clearly wanted to say something else, but closed his mouth, nodding. She straightened, taking deep, steadying breaths before she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her out. They made their way back through the crowd, bidding farewells to their hosts. She caught sight of Fisk as they reached the front door. He was leaning against a far wall, watching them from over the rim of his glass. He raised his drink in a toast to her, and she averted her gaze. Rex’s hand slipped over hers soothingly, and she suddenly realized how tightly she was gripping his arm. 

It took everything in her to keep her pace unhurried as they made their way back down the street to their dwelling. As soon as the door hissed shut behind them, she turned to Rex. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” 

He nodded. “Start breaking things down. I’ll try to get a hold of Organa.”

“We can’t wait for him, Rex.” 

He ran his hands over his face. “I know. But we have no choice.” She could see him working the problem. “He still has very little proof, so I’m doubtful he can pull together a strike force immediately, especially against a civilian couple.” 

Senna huffed. “You remember the festival? You really think the Empire is going to be that concerned with proof? They don’t give a shit if we’re civilians. If he goes in there claiming I’m a Jedi, they’ll leap at the opportunity. We have to leave now.” 

Rex paced. “We can’t just leave. I have no doubt Fisk is putting out a bulletin with our names as we speak. If we go to a port, he’ll know, and we’ll be arrested immediately. We can’t use a public transport. I’ve got an emergency beacon, but that has to be a last resort. Hopefully, we’ll hear back in a few hours and–” 

“We can’t just stay here,” she argued. 

“Just give me a second to think, Senna,” Rex finally snapped. 

She recoiled. 

He thinks this is your fault. 

“Alright,” she replied quietly. “I’ll go start breaking down my equipment and wiping drives.” Without another word, she turned and walked up the stairs. Rex didn’t say anything else, and Senna felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes. 

He thinks this is your fault. 

And maybe he’s right.

Tag List: @seriowan @partoftheeternalsoul @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @staycalmandhugaclone @redheadgirl @fordo-kixed-rex @wizardofrozz @ariadnes-red-thread @justanothersadperson93 @leftealeaf @kaminocasey @echos-girlfriend @lucyysthings @obihiddlenox @merkitty49 @littlemissmanga @clonecyaree @baba-fett @sleepingsun501 @rexxdjarin @samspenandsword @babygirlrex0504 @ladytano420 @fxlsealarm @runforrestr @djarrex @corrieguards @the-cantina @witchklng @wolffegirlsunite @fives-lover @rain-on-kamino @ladykatakuri @ladykagewaki @arctrooper69 @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

[f1-disaster-bi]

Lando’s comments today made my heart hurt for him. When talking about Ralf “…..their life a bit more in a good way without hiding things and feeling like people will say bad things and attack them ….. you just want people to live their life and be happy and not feel like they're going to be judged.” There’s a lot of layers to those words, and reflection back to Landos thoughts. reminds me of him saying he would “…probably ask him if he cared what other people thought”

And whether it's this or talking about mental health, you just want people to live their life and be happy and not feel like they are going to get judged."

And this, from when he was asked what he would ask Senna.

"I would probably ask him if he cared what other people thought.”

Shows that Lando, like everyone, is affected by what people say about him.

It also reminded me of all the bullshit he goes through every time he's so much as spotted with a girl. Lando went through hell during his relationship with Luisa because of people online watching his every move, analysing everything, sending both himself and her threats, and it's just so sad.

There has to be so much pressure on Lando, and on the other drivers, from outside the sport from fans that think they know better or enough to comment on things that aren't there business or feel entitled to spit hatred like it's their day job just because it's an athlete or celebrity that "won't care or even see it"

They do see it. Of course they do, and of course it's going to affect them the same way it'd affect you or me.

Drivers are human. Celebrities are human. Athletes are human.

Call them out when necessary, but the hate thrown around for no reason other than to hate, needs to stop because you wouldn't be unaffected if it was you or someone you love, and it's no different just because someone has money.

[travalistocata]

woe. girl dad au drabbles upon thee.

A noise wakes her up. She isn’t sure if it was from a dream or if it actually happened. Regardless, Jerrica keeps her blankets tugged to her chin protectively. She misses her bed. She misses her room. She misses her parents. It’s her first night alone on Centauri Prime and she is very, very scared. G’Kar told her that she can call for him any time she needs him, but she’s grown, and she doesn’t want to bother him. Her mouth is dry and she doesn’t know where to get water. She can’t fall asleep until the sun starts rising.

***

The Centauri look at them strangely. G’Kar’s grip on her hand is firm, as if worried that she will bolt into the halls. She’s only done it once. A woman mutters something in words Jerrica can’t understand and G’Kar’s grip on her hand grows tighter. He tugs her closer. Jerrica thinks she understands. She remembers the same thing happening one night when her mom held her close coming home from the store before curfew. A man with a shirt that said “home guard strong” on it following them and shouting words Jerrica couldn’t hear because her mom covered her ears.

***

Jerrica can’t help but peek at the desk of papers and documents and whatever else. She doesn’t want to be a bother - G’Kar told her to not be a bother - and she wants to keep her distance from the Emperor. He scares her. He talks too sweetly to her, like he’s trying too hard, and Jerrica is way too smart for that. But he also makes her incredibly curious. She sees how G’Kar looks at him, and how he looks at G’Kar. She feels her heart stop when he looks up from his desk.

”Can I help you, my friend?”

***

The portraits on the walls scare her. They’re all of serious, severe looking Centauri men that glare down at her. The halls get dark. The palace is too large. Everything on the planet scares her. She clings to G’Kar like a girl younger than she is, and hopes that she doesn’t get lost.

”Were you scared when you first came here?” Jerrica asks G’Kar curiously.

G’Kar has a look on his face that makes Jerrica feel bad. She’s hurt his feelings. He looks down at her as they walk and he smiles.

”More than you can ever imagine,” he responds.

***

”Hello.”

Jerrica’s brain is so hot from a fever and so sluggish with medicine everything feels like it’s a movie. She peeks up at the shape in the doorway. It’s not G’Kar. The Emperor sits down at her bedside in the chair that G’Kar had been occupying.

”Your father needs sleep,” he explains as Jerrica shifts in her bed nervously. “He asked that I keep you company.”

They sit and look at each other in silence. Jerrica turns to try and get some sleep. A hand starts to rub circles on her back. She doesn’t stop him, and falls asleep.

***

The waves are noisy as they crash against nearby rocks and lap against the sand. Jerrica feels the water rush around her knees and she wobbles from the strength of the tides. G’Kar is further out, bobbing with each wave, and he calls to her. She looks back at the litter that currently stashes both Senna and the Emperor and the Emperor waves from behind thin curtains. She goes out further into the water, up to her waist, and as she’s waving at G’Kar she gets knocked over by a particularly strong wave. She resurfaces with a shriek of laughter.

***

Jerrica picks up her book and rubs her eyes sleepily. It’s time for bed, as much as she hates that, but she must admit that she’s tired. G’Kar looks up from his own book as she approaches him. She’s scared. It’s on the tip of her tongue.

”Night…” she mutters. “I…”

She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him, relieved at the feeling of his arms around her too. Her heart is beating in her chest. She isn’t sure if she should say it.

”I love you, Dad.”

G’Kar squeezes her closer.

”I love you too, little one.”

***

Jerrica peeks at the desk again. Centauri writing is pretty. It reminds her of boomerangs. The Emperor looks up at her and smiles. His teeth used to scare her. Now they don’t. The hair is still stupid to her, but when she made a comment on it before coming to Centauri Prime her parents said that she was being “culturally insensitive.”

”What’re you doing?” Jerrica asks.

”I am writing a speech that I have to give. A new museum is opening soon.” He taps the papers in front of him.

”Oh…cool,” she lies.

”Do you wish to help me practice?”

***

Senna hides in her room more often than not, and any time Jerrica has tried to enter it, she’s gotten yelled at. G’Kar says she has to respect Senna’s space. G’Kar says that Senna is going through things that Jerrica went through when she was a little girl, so it is very new and fresh and painful. Jerrica wishes she could help. She feels like they have a lot in common. Sometimes she sees Senna play games that she likes, but all Senna does is roll her eyes and sigh when Jerrica tries to talk. She hopes they’ll be friends.

***

Jerrica points at the swords crossed on the walls behind the Emperor’s desk. And the display of shiny medals. And the framed page with Narn on it. And the portraits of other Centauri.

”What’s that? And that? And that? Who is that? What about her?”

The Emperor tells her. He used to duel when he was a young man with swords, and he got those medals for military service, and the page is from G’Kar’s book, and those are his family. He takes one of the swords down and Jerrica gasps as it’s unsheathed.

”Do you want to hold it?”

***

“Night, Dad! I love you!” Jerrica says quickly, earning herself a hug and a kiss.

”I love you too, little one,” replies G’Kar.

The nightly routine is interrupted by Jerrica standing. She feels awkward again. The Emperor looks up from the papers that he’s going over as Jerrica approaches him.

”Goodnight, L…Londo…” she mutters awkwardly.

”Oh, goodni-“

She cuts him off with a hug around his neck and a kiss on the cheek. When she pulls away, both men are looking at her like she’s done a magic trick, and she runs to bed embarrassed before either one can speak.

***

Jerrica is swinging sticks in the garden, pretending to swordfight bushes, when she finds Senna on a bench. A book is shut next to her and she worries at the lap of her skirts. She always wears such pretty dresses. Senna is very pretty all around. Jerrica stops approaching her when she sees that Senna is crying. The sound of her shoes on the cobblestone walkway makes Senna lift her head.

”You okay?” Jerrica asks.

“It’s nothing,” replies Senna, and Jerrica knows.

”I’m sorry,” says Jerrica.

She sits on the bench next to her. Senna holds her hand and cries

***

She traces over G’Kar’s writing, repeats what he says, listens to him talk. It embarrasses her how difficult it is to try and learn her own language. She wishes she remembers what her mother’s voice sounded like, what she said, how she sang, how she laughed. G’Kar says she is doing a good job and that she should take it from the man who knows three languages that learning languages is hard. All she can do is write her name like a baby. But she looks at that name and feels proud, especially when G’Kar praises her for it.

G’Ryka.

[questionmarkwriting]

Chapter 1

Bolin x reader, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers. No use of y/n, reader is femme presenting using she/her pronouns. Starts at the end of season 1 and follows the events of the series as close as possible.

The wind whipped at your face as you stood in the snow. The cold air stung your eyes, but you were used to the freezing weather. You shifted from foot to foot in anticipation.

When you heard Korra would be returning home to see Katara, you stared at the sky every chance you got. You were eagerly waiting to see the bison gliding through the air, carrying your best friend in the world. It seemed like the trip was taking forever, when in reality it had only been a few days. Korra had been gone for months in the city though, and you didn’t get as many updates to each other as you would have liked. It wasn’t surprising; she was the Avatar after all and was busier than ever.

You knew she’d be hurting and may need some time alone, but you needed to at least give her a hug. This was the longest the two of you had gone without seeing each other. It was the beginning of her duties, she was incredibly important to the world and you knew how much she wanted to help wherever she could. Growing up in the Southern water tribe had its downsides, but your community was small and close. You still weren’t used to her being gone. Your parents were great friends with Tonraq and Senna for years, even before the two of you were born. She was older than you by a few months and Korra was basically like your sister. Before she had left you saw each other daily.

Finally, early that morning, Oogi could be seen miles away in the distance. You had run out where Katara stood, nearly shaking with anticipation. Katara looked over at you with a small smile gracing her face. She grabbed your hand and gave it a few pats, encouraging you to calm yourself. She was your mentor in almost every aspect and you considered yourself lucky to even be in her presence.

“You look how I feel,” Katara chuckled.

“I can’t wait to see Korra,” you replied. “But I know she’s going to be hurting.”

Katara nodded solemnly. You knew Amon had taken her bending; that was the main reason they were coming. You could see multiple heads now, more than you had expected. Tenzin and his family were a given, and chief Beifong would be in the saddle too. There were three faces you had never seen before though.

They must be Korra’s friends, you thought to yourself. In one of the letters Korra had written to you, she mentioned she had made some great friends; Asami, Mako, and Bolin if you remembered correctly.

“Gran-gran!” Ikki yelled. She jumped from the saddle as Oogi touched down, floating softly to her feet. The little girl ran to Katara, jumping up into her arms. Ikki was talking animatedly to her grandmother as you searched the faces for your best friend. Korra jumped from Oogi’s back as she made eye contact with you, running full force in your direction. She quickly enveloped you in a smothering hug.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you squeaked out as the air left your body. Korra had always been much stronger than you.

“I missed you more,” she replied. Always competitive, you thought to yourself. “Come on, I want you to meet everyone.”

Korra was pulling you towards the bison where a stunning woman stood. Her long black hair fell in perfect waves down her shoulders as she looked up at you, a brilliant smile gracing her burgundy lips.

“You must be the best friend we’ve heard so much about,” she said, light green eyes shining in the sunlight. “I’m Asami.”

“And this is Mako,” Korra pulling the arm of the taller man.

“Hi, I’m so glad to finally meet you! Any friend of Korra’s is a friend of mine.”

“Heads up!” You heard another voice yell from above. Bags flew out as Mako caught them, an impressive coordination with the other man still in the saddle.

“Come on Bolin, hurry up,” Korra shouted to him. The curly haired man jumped down holding bags on each of his shoulders.

“Oh hey! Hi, uh yeah name’s Bolin,” he said. His cheeks were slightly pink as his deep green eyes twinkled. He cleared his throat lightly, grinning at you.

You realized you had been staring. “Hi! Sorry, I got lost in thought,” you replied with embarrassment. Your cheeks were suddenly warm. Fortunately he smiled wider, possibly oblivious to your predicament.

“We should get started,” Katara announced. Unbeknownst to you she had walked up to your small circle and was leading Korra away. Right, the whole reason she’s here, you remembered. You followed behind the two, not really knowing if you’d be in the room or not. It depended on what Korra wanted. Best friend or not she was stubborn and didn’t like to show her vulnerability.

At the healing hut, Katara led Korra into a private room as the rest of you waited. The air was tense and the process took hours with no success. Korra ran out, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Mako followed after her, surely wanting to offer his shoulder for her to cry on.

Senna invited everyone for tea at their home, knowing Korra would probably not be back for awhile. You exited the hut but opted to walk a different direction, wanting time to yourself.

Bolin shouted your name. “Where are you going?” He asked you.

“I’m just going for a walk,” you answered. “Not really in the mood for tea.”

“Mind if I join you?” He asked with a small smile.

“By all means,” you said, smiling back.

The two of you walked side by side quietly for a few minutes. “So tell me about yourself.”

“Oh sure, yeah, um,” he stuttered momentarily. “Well I’m from Republic City. I’m a pro bender for the Fire Ferrets with Korra and my brother Mako. We had a great season but we lost. I mean it was a whole thing with the equalists and Korra and Beifong tried to fight them… you probably already knew all that. ” He blushed.

“No, go on. Korra’s letters weren’t very detailed. I’d love to hear more,” you encouraged.

The two of you talked for a while; the conversation never lulling. When Mako and Korra found you, she had successfully gotten her bending back. You joined the couple as they went to find the others, stealing glances at Bolin when you thought he wasn’t looking.

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The last day the group would be here, you and Korra finally got some time alone. The two of you were sprawled on the couch with snacks, Naga enjoying every treat the two of you threw to her. You finally mustered the courage to ask the question that had been on your mind since that very first day.

“So… What’s with Mako’s little brother? What’s his name, Bolin?” You asked, trying hard to be nonchalant.

Of course Korra instantly noticed that you were squirming slightly. Embarrassment tinted your cheeks.

“Ha-ha! I knew you had a crush on him!” She exclaimed, punching you lightly on your arm.

“Ugh shut up, I don’t even know him. He’s just cute. What’s his deal? Is he single?”

Korra rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s single.” She then sat up straight, looking more serious. The way she looked away from you made you nervous. As you were about to ask what was wrong she spoke up again. “Listen, I want to say he’s really sweet and I think you should make a move. But I need to tell you, Bolin and I went on a date once. Nothing happened, but he was really upset when he saw Mako and I kiss for the first time. He got over it, and we’re just buddies… but I didn’t want to hide that from you or anything. Like I said nothing happened.” Korra was nervously playing with her hands, obviously scared you were going to be upset.

You waved her off. “Don’t worry about it Korra, it’s totally fine. I appreciate you telling me and all but it’s no big deal. Nothing is going to happen between me and Bolin anyways so really it’s not a problem.”

Korra was about to say something else when Asami walked in, giving you a small wave. “Hey, good to see you again! I’m sorry to interrupt, but Tenzin said we have to leave soon.”

The two of you knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I just got you back! I know you have to go but I’ve missed you so much. It’s so boring here without you,” you said, grabbing Korra’s hand. You held onto it and she squeezed your hand a few times, then pulled you forward for a hug.

“Don’t worry, I'll be back again soon. Definitely for the Glacier Spirits Festival!”

“Korra, that is so far away. I better see you before then!” You knew she was busy, but it made you sad to see your friend doing such important work while you stayed behind, doing the same mundane thing day after day. You’d mastered waterbending, and Katara and Kya told you that you were one of the best healers they’d seen. You wanted to do more. “I wish I could come with you,” you said.

Korra’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t you? You can stay on air temple island with me and I’m sure Tenzin would be okay with it. Seriously, come back to Republic City with us!”

Just then, Bolin came waltzing in. He was incredibly light on his feet for being an earthbender. He seemed graceful and so sure of every step he took. “Hello, ladies.” He grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not now Bolin, we’re talking about something serious.” Korra said to him. His face relaxed and he looked more somber as he put his two index fingers together in concern.

“Oh I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just trying to convince this one to come back to the city with us,” she said pushing your shoulder. “She’s an incredible waterbender and healer and it would be so great to have my best friend with me,” Korra exclaimed. “I’ve missed you so much, having you around would mean the world to me. What do you think?”

“You waterbend? I didn’t know that! That’s awesome! You should definitely come and we can spar some time! Plus we can take you backstage with the Fire Ferrets and you can watch all the matches.” Bolin seemed genuinely excited about the idea of it, even if he barely knew you. You looked over at Korra who was smirking ever so slightly.

“I’d love to come.” It wasn’t even about what Bolin said, although it was definitely a plus that he seemed so into the idea. You really wanted to see the city and be with your friend again. Your parents would likely be okay with it. Considering how much they respected Tenzin, you knew they’d love to hear that you’d be living on air temple island with him and his family.

“Then it’s settled!” Korra said excitedly. “Republic City, here we come!”

[yan-senna]

Alfea’s Secret (Valtor)

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Navigation

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Introduction:

During his search for a spell in Alfea, Valtor forgets his mission when a document catches his eyes. What is Alfea’s secret? And how will it be useful to him?

This is a request from @jamiebarnesws. Thank you for your request!

I hope you enjoy!

Published: 2/23/2023

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Word count: 1.1k

Warning: Mentions of blood magic, death and mental instability

“It has to be here somewhere!” Valtor growls under his breath. He’s currently at Alfea - in Faragonda’s office, to be exact. He’s looking for a specific spell that can help him become even more powerful. But where is it? He knows the old hag has it. If only her papers were organised better than this…

He grabs a stack of documents, skims through it before throwing it away and grabbing another stack of documents. He sighs. This is going to take all day…

The Trix better be able to keep everyone at the school distracted while he’s here making a mess in the Headmistress’ office.

Just as he’s about to really lose his patience and set the whole room on fire, a document catches his eyes. ‘Incidents through Alfea’s History’ the title says. Huh, interesting. It won’t hurt reading this a bit…

He grabs the document, sits down on Faragonda’s chair with his feet up on the table as he starts reading. A specific incident named ‘Alfea’s Secret’ intrigues him the most. What he reads makes him forget everything about the spell he came here to steal.

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Continue reading on AO3 or Wattpad

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Author’s note:

There will be a part 2 on 10/20/2023!

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